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EMINENT   VICTORIANS 


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EMINENT 
VICTORIANS 

CARDINAL  MANNING 

DR.  ARNOLD 

FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE 

GENERAL  GORDON 

BY 

LYTTON  5TRACHEY 


THE 

MODERN    LIBRARY 

NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,    I  9  I  8,  BY    HARCOURT,  BRACE    &    CO. 


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To 
H.  T.  J.  N. 


LYTTON   STRACHEY 

(1880-1932) 

A  NOTE  ON  THE  AUTHOR  OF 
"eminent    VICTORIANS" 

Before  1912,  when  Lytton  Strachey  had 
published  his  first  book,  the  art  of  biogra- 
phy had  declined  to  a  journeyman's  task 
of  compiling  fat  volumes  commemorating 
the  dead.  To  the  task  of  putting  an  end 
to  this  form  of  literary  abomination,  Lytton 
Strachey  brought  many  special  qualifica- 
tions. Of  these,  the  most  notable  were  his 
acute  sense  of  the  past,  a  scholarship  both 
profound  and  spirited,  and  a  crystalline 
style.  Educated  at  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, Lytton  Strachey  later  received  an 
honorary  LL.D.  from  the  University  of 
Edinburgh.  His  death,  in  1Q32,  cut  short 
a  literary  career  of  twenty  years,  during 
which  time,  his  books,  though  few,  set  a 
new  standard  in  biography  and  exercised 
a  far-reaching  influence.  In  his  own  opin- 
ion, Eminent  Victorians  is  his  masterpiece. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

LANDMARKS  IN  FRENCH  LITERATURE  (1912) 
EMINENT  VICTORIANS    (1918) 
QUEEN  VICTORIA    (1921) 
BOOKS   AND   CHARACTERS    (1922) 
POPE   (1925) 

ELIZABETH  AND  ESSEX   (1928) 
PORTRAITS   IN   MINIATURE    (1931) 


PREFACE 

The  history  of  the  Victorian  Age  will  never  be  written: 
we  know  too  much  about  it.  For  ignorance  is  the  first 
requisite  of  the  historian — ignorance,  which  simplifies 
and  clarifies,  which  selects  and  omits,  with  a  placid  per- 
fection unattainable  by  the  highest  art.  Concerning  the 
Age  which  has  just  passed,  our  fathers  and  our  grand- 
fathers have  poured  forth  and  accumulated  so  vast  a 
quantity  of  information  that  the  industry  of  a  Ranke 
would  be  submerged  by  it,  and  the  perspicacity  of  a  Gib- 
bon would  quail  before  it.  It  is  not  by  the  direct  method  of 
a  scrupulous  narration"  that  the  explorer  of  the  past  can 
hope  to  depict  that  singular  epoch.  If  he  is  wise,  he  will 
adopt  a  subtler  strategy.  He  will  attack  his  subject  In  un- 
expected places;  he  will  fall  upon  the  flank,  or  the  rear;  he 
will  shoot  a  sudden,  revealing  searchlight  into  obscure 
recesses,  hitherto  undivined.  He  v/ill  row  out  over  that 
great  ocean  of  material,  and  lower  down  into  it,  here  and 
there,  a  little  bucket,  which  will  bring  up  to  the  light  of 
day  some  characteristic  specimen,  from  those  far  depths, 
to  be  examined  with  a  careful  curiosity.  Guided  by  these 
considerations,  I  have  written  the  ensuing  studies.  I  have 
attempted,  through  the  medium  of  biography,  to  present 
some  Victorian  visions  to  the  modern  eye.  They  are,  in  one 
sense,  haphazard  visions — that  is  to  say,  my  choice  of 
subjects  has  been  determined  by  no  desire  to  construct  a 
system  or  to  prove  a  theory,  but  by  simple  motives  of  con- 
venience and  of  art.  It  has  been  my  purpose  to  illustrate 


Vm  PREFACE 

rather  than  to  explain.  It  would  have  been  futile  to  hope 
to  tell  even  a  precis  of  the  truth  about  the  Victorian  age, 
for  the  shortest  precis  must  fill  innumerable  volumes.  But, 
in  the  lives  of  an  ecclesiastic,  an  educational  authority, 
a  woman  of  action,  and  a  man  of  adventure,  I  have  sought 
to  examine  and  elucidate  certain  fragments  of  the  truth 
which  took  my  fancy  and  lay  to  my  hand. 

I  hope,  however,  that  the  following  pages  may  prove 
to  be  of  interest  from  the  strictly  biographical  no  less 
than  from  the  historical  point  of  view.  Human  beings  are 
too  important  to  be  treated  as  mere  symptoms  of  the  past. 
They  have  a  value  which  is  independent  of  any  temporal 
processes — which  is  eternal,  and  must  be  felt  for  its  own 
sake.  The  art  of  biography  seems  to  have  fallen  on  evil 
times  in  England.  We  have  had,  it  is  true,  a  few  master- 
pieces, but  we  have  never  had,  like  the  French,  a  great 
biographical  tradition;  we  have  had  no  Fontenelles  and 
Condorcets,  with  their  incomparable  eloges,  compressing 
into  a  few  shining  pages  the  manifold  existences  of  men. 
With  us,  the  most  delicate  and  humane  of  all  the  branches 
of  the  art  of  writing  has  been  relegated  to  the  journeymen 
of  letters;  we  do  not  reflect  that  it  is  perhaps  as  difficult  to 
write  a  good  life  as  to  live  one.  Those  two  fat  volumes, 
with  which  it  is  our  custom  to  commenjorate  the  dead — 
who  does  not  know  them,  with  their  ill-digested  masses  of 
material,  their  slipshod  style,  their  tone  of  tedious  pane- 
gyric, their  lamentable  lack  of  selection,  of  detachment, 
of  design?  They  are  as  familiar  as  the  cortege  of  the  under- 
taker, and  wear  the  same  air  of  slow,  funereal  barbarism. 
One  is  tempted  to  suppose,  of  some  of  them,  that  they 
were  composed  by  that  functionary,  as  the  final  item  of 
his  job.  The  studies  in  this  book  are  indebted,  in  more  ways 
than  one,  to  such  works — works  which  certainly  deserve 


PREFACE  Ix 

the  name  of  Standard  Biographies.  For  they  have  provided 
me  not  only  with  much  indispensable  information,  but 
with  something  even  more  precious — an  example.  How 
many  lessons  are  to  be  learnt  from  them!  But  it  is  hardly 
necessary  to  particularise.  To  preserve,  for  instance,  a  be- 
coming brevity — a  brevity  which  excludes  everything 
that  is  redundant  and  nothing  that  is  significant — that, 
surely,  is  the  first  duty  of  the  biographer.  The  second,  no 
less  surely,  is  to  maintain  his  own  freedom  of  spirit.  It  is 
not  his  business  to  be  complimentary;  it  is  his  business  to 
lay  bare  the  facts  of  the  case,  as  he  understands  them.  That 
is  what  I  have  aimed  at  in  this  book — to  lay  bare  the  facts 
of  some  cases,  as  I  understand  them,  dispassionately,  im- 
partially, and  without  ulterior  intentions.  To  quote  the 
words  of  a  Master — "/f  n'impose  rien;  ]e  ne  propose  rien: 
j'expose.'* 

L.  S. 


A  list  of  the  principal  sources  from  which  I  have  dr^wn 
is  appended  to  each  Biography.  I  would  indicate,  as  an  hon- 
ourable exception  to  the  currettt  commodity,  Sir  Edward 
Cook's  excellent  "Life  of  Florence  Nightingale,"  without 
which  my  own  study,  though  composed  on  a  very  different 
scale  and  from  a  decidedly  different  angle,  could  not  have 
been  written. 


CONTENTS 

FAca 

Cardinal  Manning , 

Florence  Nightingale iji 

Dr.  Arnold 201 

The  End  OF  General  Gordon 239 


CARDINAL  MANNING 


CARDINAL  MANNING 

Henry  Edward  Manning  was  born  in  1807  and  died  in 
1892.  His  life  was  extraordinary  in  many  ways,  but  its 
interest  for  the  modern  inquirer  depends  mainly  upon  two 
considerations — the  light  which  his  career  throws  upon 
the  spirit  of  his  age,  and  the  psychological  problems  sug- 
gested by  his  inner  history.  He  belonged  to  that  class  of 
eminent  ecclesiastics — and  it  is  by  no  means  a  small  class 
— who  have  been  distinguished  less  for  saintliness  and 
learning  than  for  practical  ability.  Had  he  lived  in  the 
Middle  Ages  he  would  certainly  have  been  neither  a 
Francis  nor  an  Aquinas,  but  he  might  have  been  an  Inno- 
cent. As  it  was,  born  in  the  England  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  growing  up  in  the  very  seed-time  of  modern 
progress,  coming  to  maturity  with  the  first  onrush  of 
Liberalism,  and  living  long  enough  to  witness  the  vic- 
tories of  Science  and  Democracy,  he  yet,  by  a  strange 
concatenation  of  circumstances,  seemed  almost  to  revive 
in  his  own  person  that  long  line  of  diplomatic  and  admin- 
istrative clerics  which,  one  would  have  thought,  had  come 
to  an  end  with  Cardinal  Wolsey.  In  Manning,  so  it  ap- 
peared, the  Middle  Ages  lived  again.  The  tall  gaunt  figure, 
with  the  face  of  smiling  asceticism,  the  robes,  and  the 
biretta,  as  it  passed  in  triumph  from  High  Mass  at  the 
Oratory  to  philanthropic  gatherings  at  Exeter  Hall,  from 
Strike  Committees  at  the  Docks  to  Mayfair  drawing- 
rooms  where  fashionable  ladies  knelt  to  the  Prince  of  the 
Church,  certainly  bore  witness  to  a  singular  condition  of 

3 


4  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

affairs.  What  had  happened?  Had  a  dominating  character 
imposed  itself  upon  a  hostile  environment?  Or  was  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  after  all,  not  so  hostile?  Was  there 
something  in  it,  scientific  and  progressive  as  it  was,  which 
went  out  to  welcome  the  representative  of  ancient  tradi- 
tion and  uncompromising  faith?  Had  it  perhaps,  a  place 
in  its  heart  for  such  as  Manning — a  soft  place,  one  might 
almost  say?  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  was  it  he  who  had 
been  supple  and  yielding?  he  who  had  won  by  art  what 
he  would  never  have  won  by  force,  and  who  had  managed, 
so  to  speak,  to  be  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  procession  less 
through  merit  than  through  a  superior  faculty  for  gliding 
adroitly  to  the  front  rank?  And,  in  any  case,  by  what 
odd  chances,  what  shifts  and  struggles,  what  combinations 
of  circumstance  and  character  had  this  old  man  come  to 
be  where  he  was?  Such  questions  are  easier  to  ask  than 
to  answer;  but  it  may  be  instructive,  and  even  amusing, 
to  look  a  little  more  closely  into  the  complexities  of  so 
curious  a  story. 


Undoubtedly,  what  is  most  obviously  striking  in  the 
history  of  Manning's  career  is  the  persistent  strength  of 
his  innate  characteristics.  Through  all  the  changes  of  his 
fortunes  the  powerful  spirit  of  the  man  worked  on  undis- 
mayed. It  was  as  if  the  Fates  had  laid  a  wager  that  they 
would  daunt  him,  and  in  the  end  they  lost  their  bet. 

His  father  was  a  rich  West  India  merchant,  a  governor 
of  the  Bank  of  England,  a  Member  of  Parliament,  who 
drove  into  town  every  day  from  his  country  seat  in  a 
coach  and  four,  and  was  content  with  nothing  short  of  a 
bishop  for  the  christening  of  his  children.  Little  Henry, 
like  the  rest,  had  his  bishop;  but  he  was  obliged  to  wait  for 
him — for  as  long  as  eighteen  months.  In  those  days,  and 
even  a  generation  later,  as  Keble  bears  witness,  there  was 
great  laxity  in  regard  to  the  early  baptism  of  children.  The 
delay  has  been  noted  by  Manning's  biographer  as  the  first 
stumbling-block  in  the  spiritual  life  of  the  future  Car- 
dinal: but  he  surmounted  it  with  success. 

His  father  was  more  careful  in  other  ways. 

His  refinement  and  delicacy  of  mind  were  such  [wrote  Manning 
long  afterwards]  that  I  never  heard  out  of  his  mouth  a  word 
which  might  not  have  been  spoken  in  the  presence  of  the  most 
pure  and  sensitive, — except  [he  adds]  on  one  occasion.  He  was 
then  forced  by  others  to  repeat  a  negro  story  which,  though 
free  from  all  evil  de  sexu,  was  indelicate.  He  did  it  with  great 
resistance.  His  example  gave  me  a  hatred  of  all  such  talk. 

5 


'6  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

The  family  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  Evangelical  piety. 
One  day  the  little  boy  came  in  from  the  farm-yard,  and 
his  mother  asked  him  whether  he  had  seen  the  peacock. 
"I  said  yes,  and  the  nurse  said  no,  and  my  mother  made 
me  kneel  down  and  beg  God  to  forgive  me  for  not  speak- 
ing the  truth."  At  the  age  of  four  the  child  was  told  by 
a  cousin  of  the  age  of  six  that  "God  had  a  book  in  which 
He  wrote  down  everything  we  did  wrong.  This  so  terri- 
fied me  for  days  that  I  remember  being  found  by  my 
mother  sitting  under  a  kind  of  writing-table  in  great  fear. 
I  never  forgot  this  at  any  time  in  my  life,"  the  Cardinal 
tells  us,  "and  it  has  been  a  great  grace  to  me."  When  he 
was  nine  years  old  he  "devoured  the  Apocalypse;  and  I 
never  all  through  my  life  forgot  the  'lake  that  burneth 
with  fire  and  brimstone.'  That  verse  has  kept  with  me  like 
an  audible  voice  through  all  my  life,  and  through  worlds 
of  danger  in  my  youth." 

At  Harrow  the  worlds  of  danger  were  already  around 
him;  but  yet  he  listened  to  the  audible  voice.  "At  school 
and  college  I  never  failed  to  say  my  prayers,  so  far  as 
memory  serves  me,  even  for  a  day."  And  he  underwent 
another  religious  experience:  he  read  Paley's  Evidences. 
"I  took  in  the  whole  argument,"  wrote  Manning,  when 
he  was  over  seventy,  "and  I  thank  God  that  nothing  has 
ever  shaken  it."  Yet  on  the  whole  he  led  the  unspiritual 
life  of  an  ordinary  school-boy.  We  have  glimpses  of  him 
as  a  handsome  lad,  playing  cricket,  or  strutting  about  in 
tasselled  Hessian  top-boots.  And  on  one  occasion  at  least 
he  gave  proof  of  a  certain  dexterity  of  conduct  which  de- 
served to  be  remembered.  He  went  out  of  bounds,  and  a 
master,  riding  by  and  seeing  him  on  the  other  side  of  a 
field,  tied  his  horse  to  a  gate,  and  ran  after  him.  The  astute 
youth  outran  the  master,  fetched  a  circle,  reached  the  gate,. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  7 

jumped  on  to  the  horse's  back,  and  rode  off.  For  this  he 
was  very  properly  chastised;  but  of  what  use  was  chastise- 
ment? No  whipping,  however  severe,  could  have  eradi- 
cated from  little  Henry's  mind  a  quality  at  least  as  firmly 
planted  in  it  as  his  fear  of  Hell  and  his  belief  in  the  argu- 
ments of  Paley. 

It  had  been  his  father's  wish  that  Manning  should  go 
into  the  Church ;  but  the  thought  disgusted  him ;  and  when 
he  reached  Oxford,  his  tastes,  his  ambitions,  his  successes 
at  the  Union,  all  seemed  to  mark  him  out  for  a  political 
career.  He  was  a  year  junior  to  Samuel  Wilberforce,  and 
a  year  senior  to  Gladstone.  In  those  days  the  Union  was 
the  recruiting-ground  for  young  politicians;  Ministers 
came  down  from  London  to  listen  to  the  debates;  and  a 
few  years  later  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  gave  Gladstone 
a  pocket  borough  on  the  strength  of  his  speech  at  the 
Union  against  the  Reform  Bill.  To  those  three  young  men, 
indeed,  the  whole  world  lay  open.  "Were  they  not  rich, 
well-connected,  and  endowed  with  an  infinite  capacity  for 
making  speeches?  The  event  justified  the  highest  expecta- 
tions of  their  friends;  for  the  least  distinguished  of  the 
three  died  a  bishop.  The  only  danger  lay  in  another 
direction. 

Watch,  my  dear  Samuel  [wrote  the  elder  "Wilberforce  to  his 
son]  watch  with  jealousy  whether  you  find  yourself  unduly 
solicitous  about  acquitting  yourself;  whether  you  are  too 
much  chagrined  when  you  fail,  or  are  puffed  up  by  your  suc- 
cess. Undue  solicitude  about  popular  estimation  is  a  weakness 
against  which  all  real  Christians  must  guard  with  the  most 
jealous  watchfulness.  The  more  you  can  retain  the  impression  of 
your  being  surrounded  by  a  cloud  of  witnesses  of  the  invisible 
world,  to  use  the  Scripture  phrase,  the  more  you  will  be  armed 
against  this  besetting  sin. 


8  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

But  suddenly  it  seemed  as  if  such  a  warning  could,  after 
all,  have  very  little  relevance  to  Manning;  for,  on  his  leav- 
ing Oxford,  the  brimming  cup  was  dashed  from  his  lips. 
He  was  already  beginning  to  dream  of  himself  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  the  solitary  advocate  of  some  great 
cause  whose  triumph  was  to  be  eventually  brought  about 
by  his  extraordinary  efforts,  when  his  father  was  declared 
a  bankrupt,  and  all  his  hopes  of  a  political  career  came  to 
an  end  for  ever. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Manning  became  intimate  with 
a  pious  lady,  the  sister  of  one  of  his  College  friends,  whom 
he  used  to  describe  as  his  Spiritual  Mother.  He  made  her 
his  conjfidante;  and  one  day,  as  they  walked  together  in 
the  shrubbery,  he  revealed  the  bitterness  of  the  disappoint- 
ment into  which  his  father's  failure  had  plunged  him.  She 
tried  to  cheer  him,  and  then  she  added  that  there  were 
higher  aims  open  to  him  which  he  had  not  considered. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "The  kingdom  of 
Heaven,"  she  answered;  "heavenly  ambitions  are  not 
closed  against  you."  The  young  man  listened,  was  silent, 
and  said  at  last  that  he  did  not  know  but  she  was  right. 
She  suggested  reading  the  Bible  together;  and  they  ac- 
cordingly did  so  during  the  whole  of  that  vacation,  every 
morning  after  breakfast.  Yet,  in  spite  of  these  devotional 
exercises,  and  in  spite  of  a  voluminous  correspondence  on 
religious  subjects  with  his  Spiritual  Mother,  Manning  still 
continued  to  indulge  in  secular  hopes.  He  entered  the 
Colonial  Office  as  a  supernumerary  clerk,  and  it  was  only 
when  the  offer  of  a  Merton  Fellowship  seemed  to  depend 
upon  his  taking  orders  that  his  heavenly  ambitions  began 
to  assume  a  definite  shape.  Just  then  he  fell  in  love  with 
Miss  Deffell,  whose  father  would  have  nothing  to  say 
to  a  young  man  without  prospects,  and  forbade  him  the 


CARDINAL     MANNING  9 

house.  It  was  only  too  true;  what  were  the  prospects  of 
a  supernumerary  clerk  in  the  Colonial  Office?  Manning 
went  to  Oxford  and  took  orders.  He  was  elected  to  the 
Merton  Fellowship,  and  obtained  through  the  influence  of 
the  Wilberforces  a  curacy  in  Sussex.  At  the  last  moment 
he  almost  drew  back.  "I  think  the  whole  step  has  been  too 
precipitate,"  he  wrote  to  his  brother-in-law.  "I  have  rather 
allowed  the  instance  of  my  friends,  and  the  allurements 
of  an  agreeable  curacy  in  many  respects,  to  get  the  better 
of  my  sober  judgment."  His  vast  ambitions,  his  dream  of 
public  service,  of  honours,  and  of  power,  was  all  this  to 
end  in  a  little  country  curacy  "agreeable  in  many  re- 
spects"? But  there  was  nothing  for  it;  the  deed  was  done; 
and  the  Fates  had  apparently  succeeded  very  effectively 
in  getting  rid  of  Manning.  All  he  could  do  was  to  make  the 
best  of  a  bad  business.  Accordingly,  in  the  first  place,  he 
decided  that  he  had  received  a  call  from  God  "ad  veritatem 
et  ad  seipsum";  and,  in  the  second,  forgetting  Miss  Def- 
fell,  he  married  his  rector's  daughter.  Within  a  few  months 
the  rector  died,  and  Manning  stepped  into  his  shoes:  and 
at  least  it  could  be  said  that  the  shoes  were  not  uncomfort- 
able. For  the  next  seven  years  he  fulfilled  the  functions  of 
a  country  clergyman.  He  was  energetic  and  devout;  he 
was  polite  and  handsome;  his  fame  grew  in  the  diocese. 
At  last  he  began  to  be  spoken  of  as  the  probable  successor 
to  the  old  Archdeacon  of  Chichester.  When  Mrs.  Man- 
ning prematurely  died,  he  was  at  first  inconsolable,  but 
he  found  relief  in  the  distraction  of  redoubled  work.  How 
could  he  have  guessed  that  one  day  he  would  come  to  num- 
ber that  loss  among  "God's  special  mercies"?  Yet  so  it 
was  to  be.  In  after  years,  the  memory  of  his  wife  seemed 
to  be  blotted  from  his  mind;  he  never  spoke  of  her;  every 
letter,  every  record,  of  his  married  life  he  destroyed;  and 


lO  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

when  word  was  sent  to  him  that  her  grave  was  f  aUing  into 
ruin:  "It  is  best  so,"  the  Cardinal  answered;  "let  it  be. 
Time  effaces  all  things."  But,  when  the  grave  was  yet 
fresh,  the  young  Rector  would  sit  beside  it,  day  after  day, 
writing  his  sermons. 


n 

In  the  meantime  a  series  of  events  was  taking  place  in 
another  part  of  England,  which  wi;s  to  have  a  no  less  pro- 
found effect  upon  Manning's  history  than  the  merciful 
removal  of  his  wife.  In  the  same  year  in  which  he  took 
up  his  Sussex  curacy,  the  Tracts  for  the  Times  had  begun 
to  appear  at  Oxford.  The  "Oxford  Movement,"  in  fact, 
had  started  on  its  course.  The  phrase  is  still  familiar;  but 
its  meaning  has  become  somewhat  obscured  both  by  the 
lapse  of  time  and  the  intrinsic  ambiguity  of  the  subjects 
connected  with  it.  Let  us  borrow  for  a  moment  the  wings 
erf  Historic  Imagination,  and,  hovering  lightly  over  the 
Oxford  of  the  thirties,  take  a  rapid  bird's-eye  view. 

For  many  generations  the  Church  of  England  had  slept 
the  sleep  of  the  .  .  .  comfortable.  The  sullen  murmurings 
of  dissent,  the  loud  battle-cry  of  Revolution,  had  hardly 
disturbed  her  slumbers.  Portly  divines  subscribed  with  a 
sigh  or  a  smile  to  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  sank  quietly 
into  easy  livings,  rode  gaily  to  hounds  of  a  morning  as 
gentlemen  should,  and,  as  gentlemen  should,  carried  their 
two  bottles  of  an  evening.  To  be  in  the  Church  was  in 
fact  simply  to  pursue  one  of  those  professions  which  Na- 
ture and  Society  had  decided  were  proper  to  gentlemen 
and  gentlemen  alone.  The  fervours  of  piety,  the  zeal  of 
Apostolic  charity,  the  enthusiasm  of  self-renunciation — 
these  things  were  all  very  well  in  their  way — and  in  their 
place;  but  their  place  was  certainly  not  the  Church  of 
England.  Gentlemen  were  neither  fervid  nor  zealous,  and 


12  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

above  all  they  were  not  enthusiastic.  There  were,  It  was 
true,  occasionally  to  be  found  within  the  Church  some 
straitlaced  parsons  of  the  high  Tory  school  who  looked 
back  with  regret  to  the  days  of  Laud  or  talked  of  the 
Apostolical  Succession;  and  there  were  groups  of  square- 
toed  Evangelicals  who  were  earnest  over  the  Atonement, 
confessed  to  a  personal  love  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  seemed 
to  have  arranged  the  whole  of  their  lives,  down  to  the 
minutest  details  of  act  and  speech,  with  reference  to 
Eternity.  But  such  extremes  were  the  rare  exceptions.  The 
great  bulk  of  the  clergy  walked  calmly  along  the  smooth 
road  of  ordinary  duty.  They  kept  an  eye  on  the  poor  of 
the  parish,  and  they  conducted  the  Sunday  Services  In  a 
becoming  manner;  for  the  rest,  they  differed  neither  out- 
wardly nor  inwardly  from  the  great  bulk  of  the  laity,  to 
whom  the  Church  was  a  useful  organisation  for  the  main- 
tenance of  Religion,  as  by  law  established. 

The  awakening  came  at  last,  however,  and  it  was  a  rude 
one.  The  liberal  principles  of  the  French  Revolution, 
checked  at  first  in  the  terrors  of  reaction,  began  to  make 
way  in  England.  Rationalists  lifted  up  their  heads;  Ben- 
tham  and  the  Mills  propounded  Utilitarianism;  the  Re- 
form Bill  was  passed;  and  there  were  rumours  abroad  of 
disestablishment.  Even  Churchmen  seemed  to  have  caught 
the  Infection.  Dr.  Whately  was  so  bold  as  to  assert  that, 
in  the  interpretation  of  Scripture,  different  opinions 
might  be  permitted  upon  matters  of  doubt;  and  Dr. 
Arnold  drew  up  a  disquieting  scheme  for  allowing  Dis- 
senters into  the  Church,  though  It  is  true  that  he  did  not 
go  quite  so  far  as  to  contemplate  the  admission  of  Uni- 
tarians. 

At  this  time  there  was  living  In  a  country  parish  i 
young  clergyman  of  the  name  of  John  Keble.  He  had 


CARDINAL     MANNING  ly 

gone  to  Oxford  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  where,  after  a  suc- 
cessful academic  career,  he  had  been  made  a  fellow  of 
Oriel.  He  had  then  returned  to  his  father's  parish  and 
taken  up  the  duties  of  a  curate.  He  had  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  the  contents  of  the  Prayer-book,  the  ways  of  a 
Common  Room,  the  conjugations  of  the  Greek  Irregular 
Verbs,  and  the  small  jests  of  a  country  parsonage;  and 
the  defects  of  his  experience  in  other  directions  were 
replaced  by  a  zeal  and  a  piety  which  were  soon  to  prove 
themselves  equal,  and  more  than  equal,  to  whatever  calls 
might  be  made  upon  them.  The  superabundance  of  his 
piety  overflowed  into  verse;  and  the  holy  simplicity  of  the 
Christian  Year  carried  his  name  into  the  remotest  lodging- 
houses  of  England.  As  for  his  zeal,  however,  it  needed 
another  outlet.  Looking  forth  upon  the  doings  of  his 
fellow-men  through  his  rectory  windows  in  Gloucester- 
shire, Keble  felt  his  whole  soul  shaken  with  loathing, 
anger,  and  dread.  Infidelity  was  stalking  through  the  land ; 
authority  was  laughed  at;  the  hideous  doctrines  of 
democracy  were  being  openly  preached.  Worse  still,  if 
possible,  the  Church  herself  was  ignorant  and  lukewarm; 
she  had  forgotten  the  mysteries  of  the  sacraments,  she  had 
lost  faith  in  the  Apostolical  Succession,  she  was  no  longer 
interested  in  the  Early  Fathers,  and  she  submitted  herself 
to  the  control  of  a  secular  legislature,  the  members  of 
which  were  not  even  bound  to  profess  belief  in  the  Atone- 
ment. In  the  face  of  such  enormities  what  could  Keble  do? 
He  was  ready  to  do  anything,  but  he  was  a  simple  and  an 
unambitious  man,  and  his  wrath  would  in  all  probability 
have  consumed  itself  unappeased  within  him  had  he  not 
chanced  to  come  into  contact,  at  the  critical  moment,  with 
a  spirit  more  excitable  and  daring  than  his  own. 

Hurrell  Froude,  one  of  Keble's  pupils,  was  a  clever 


14  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

young  man  to  whom  had  fallen  a  rather  larger  share  o£ 
self-assurance  and  intolerance  than  even  clever  young 
men  usually  possess.  What  was  singular  about  him,  how- 
ever, was  not  so  much  his  temper  as  his  tastes.  The  sort 
of  ardour  which  impels  more  normal  youth  to  haunt  Mu- 
sic Halls  and  fall  in  love  with  actresses  took  the  form,  in 
Froude's  case,  of  a  romantic  devotion  to  the  Deity  and  an 
intense  interest  in  the  state  of  his  own  soul.  He  was  ob- 
sessed by  the  ideals  of  saintliness,  and  convinced  of  the 
supreme  importance  of  not  eating  too  much.  He  kept  a 
diary,  in  which  he  recorded  his  delinquencies,  and  they 
were  many.  "I  cannot  say  much  for  myself  to-day,"  he 
writes  on  September  29,  182^  (he  was  twenty-three  years 
old.)  "I  did  not  read  the  Psalms  and  Second  Lesson  after 
breakfast,  which  I  had  neglected  to  do  before,  though  I 
had  plenty  of  time  on  my  hands.  "Would  have  liked-  to  be 
thought  adventurous  for  a  scramble  I  had  at  the  Devil's 
Bridge.  Looked  with  greediness  to  see  if  there  was  a  goose 
on  the  table  for  dinner;  and  though  what  I  ate  was  of  the 
plainest  sort,  and  I  took  no  variety,  yet  even  this  was 
partly  the  effect  of  accident,  and  I  certainly  rather  ex- 
ceeded in  quantity,  as  I  was  muzzy  and  sleepy  after  din- 
ner." "I  allowed  myself  to  be  disgusted  with 's  pom- 
posity," he  writes  a  little  later;  "also  smiled  at  an  allusion 
in  the  Lessons  to  abstemiousness  in  eating.  I  hope  not  from 
pride  or  vanity,  but  mistrust;  it  certainly  was  uninten- 
tional." And  again,  "As  to  my  meals,  I  can  say  that  I  was 
always  careful  to  see  that  no  one  else  would  take  a  thing 
before  I  served  myself;  and  I  believe  as  to  the  kind  of  my 
food,  a  bit  of  cold  endings  of  a  dab  at  breakfast,  and  a 
jcrap  of  mackerel  at  dinner,  are  the  only  things  that  di- 
verged from  the  strict  rule  of  simplicity."  "I  am  obliged 
to  confess,"  he  notes,  "that  in  my  intercourse  with  the 


CARDINAL    MANNING  IJ 

Supreme  Being,  I  am  become  more  and  more  sluggish." 
And  then  he  exclaims:  "Thine  eye  trieth  my  inward  parts, 
and  knoweth  my  thoughts  .  . .  O  that  my  ways  were  made 
so  direct  that  I  might  keep  Thy  statutes.  I  will  walk  in  Thy 
Commandments  when  Thou  hast  set  my  heart  at  liberty." 
Such  were  the  preoccupations  o£  this  young  man.  Per- 
haps they  would  have  been  different  if  he  had  had  a  little 
less  of  what  Newman  describes  as  his  "high  severe  idea  of 
the  intrinsic  excellence  of  Virginity";  but  it  is  useless  to 
speculate.  Naturally  enough  the  fierce  and  burning  zeal  of 
Keble  had  a  profound  effect  upon  his  mind.  The  two  be- 
came intimate  friends,  and  Froude,  eagerly  seizing'upon 
the  doctrines  of  the  elder  man,  saw  to  it  that  they  had  as 
full  a  measure  of  controversial  notoriety  as  an  Oxford 
common  room  could  afford.  He  plunged  the  metaphysical 
mysteries  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church  into  the  atmos- 
phere of  party  politics.  Surprised  Doctors  of  Divinity 
found  themselves  suddenly  faced  with  strange  questions 
which  had  never  entered  their  heads  before.  Was  the 
Church  of  England,  or  was  it  not,  a  part  of  the  Church 
Catholic?  If  it  was,  were  not  the  Reformers  of  the  Six- 
teenth Century  renegades?  Was  not  the  participation  of 
the  Body  and  Blood  of  Christ  essential  to  the  maintenance 
of  Christian  life  and  hope  in  each  individual?  Were 
Timothy  and  Titus  bishops?  Or  were  they  not?  If  they 
were,  did  it  not  follow  that  the  power  of  administering 
the  Holy  Eucharist  was  the  attribute  of  a  sacred  order 
founded  by  Christ  Himself?  Did  not  the  Fathers  refer  to 
the  tradition  of  the  Church  as  to  something  independent 
of  the  written  word,  and  sufficient  to  refute  heresy,  even 
alone?  Was  it  not  therefore  God's  unwritten  word?  And 
did  it  not  demand  the  same  reverence  from  us  as  the 
Scriptures,  and  for  exactly  the  same  reason — becaitse  it 


l6  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

was  His  word?  The  Doctors  of  Divinity  were  aghast  at 
such  questions,  which  seemed  to  lead  they  hardly  knew 
whither;  and  they  found  it  difficult  to  think  of  very^ 
apposite  answers.  But  Hurrell  Froude  supplied  the  answers 
himself  readily  enough.  All  Oxford,  all  England,  should 
know  the  truth.  The  time  was  out  of  joint,  and  he  was  only 
too  delighted  to  have  been  born  to  set  it  right. 

But,  after  all,  something  more  was  needed  than  even 
the  excitement  of  Froude  combined  with  the  conviction 
of  Keble  to  ruffle  seriously  the  vast  calm  waters  of  Chris- 
tian thought;  and  it  so  happened  that  that  thing  was  not 
wanting:  it  was  the  genius  of  John  Flenry  Newman.  If 
Newman  had  never  lived,  or  if  his  father  when  the  gig 
came  round  on  the  fatal  morning,  still  undecided  between 
the  two  Universities,  had  chanced  to  turn  the  horse's  head 
in  the  direction  of  Cambridge,  who  can  doubt  that  the 
Oxford  Movement  would  have  flickered  out  its  little  flame 
unobserved  in  the  Common  Room  of  Oriel?  And  how 
different,  too,  would  have  been  the  fate  of  Newman 
himself!  Fie  was  a  child  of  the  Romantic  Revival,  a  crea- 
ture of  emotion  and  of  memory,  a  dreamer  whose  secret 
spirit  dwelt  apart  in  delectable  mountains,  an  artist  whose 
subtle  senses  caught,  like  a  shower  in  the  sunshine,  the 
impalpable  rainbow  of  the  immaterial  world.  In  other 
times,  under  other  skies,  his  days  would  have  been  more 
fortunate.  He  might  have  helped  to  weave  the  garland 
of  Meleager,  or  to  mix  the  lapis  lazuli  of  Fra  Angelico,  or 
to  chase  the  delicate  truth  in  the  shade  of  an  Athenian 
palcestra,  or  his  hands  might  have  fashioned  those  ethereal 
faces  that  smile  in  the  niches  of  Chartres.  Even  in  his  own 
age  he  might,  at  Cambridge,  whose  cloisters  have  ever 
been  consecrated  to  poetry  and  common  sense,  have  fol- 
lowed quietly  in  Gray's  footsteps  and  brought  into  flower 


CARDINAL     MANNING  \J 

those  seeds  of  inspiration  which  now  He  embedded  amid 
the  faded  devotion  of  the  Lyra  Apostolica.  At  Oxford,  he 
was  doomed.  He  could  not  withstand  the  last  enchant- 
ment of  the  Middle  Age.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  plunged 
into  the  pages  of  Gibbon  or  communed  for  long  hours 
with  Beethoven  over  his  beloved  violin.  The  air  was  thick 
with  clerical  sanctity,  heavy  with  the  odours  of  tradition 
and  the  soft  warmth  of  spiritual  authority;  his  friend- 
ship with  Hurrell  Froude  did  the  rest.  All  that  was  weak- 
est in  him  hurried  him  onward,  and  all  that  was  strongest 
in  him  too.  His  curious  and  vaulting  imagination  began 
to  construct  vast  philosophical  fabrics  out  of  the  writings 
of  ancient  monks,  and  to  dally  with  visions  of  angelic  visi- 
tations and  the  efficacy  of  the  oil  of  St.  Walburga;  his 
emotional  nature  became  absorbed  in  the  partisan  passions 
of  a  University  clique;  and  his  subtle  intellect  concerned 
itself  more  and  more  exclusively  with  the  dialectical  split- 
ting of  dogmatical  hairs.  His  future  course  was  marked 
out  for  him  all  too  clearly;  and  yet  by  a  singular  chance 
the  true  nature  of  the  man  was  to  emerge  triumphant  in 
the  end.  If  Newman  had  died  at  the  age  of  sixty,  to-day 
he  would  have  been  already  forgotten,  save  by  a  few 
ecclesiastical  historians;  but  he  lived  to  write  his  Apologia. 
and  to  reach  immortality,  neither  as  a  thinker  nor  as  a 
theologian,  but  as  an  artist  who  has  embalmed  the 
poignant  history  of  an  intensely  human  spirit  in  the  magi- 
cal spices  of  words. 

When  Froude  succeeded  in  impregnating  Newman 
■with  the  ideas  of  Keble,  the  Oxford  Movement  began. 
The  original  and  remarkable  characteristic  of  these  three 
men  was  that  they  took  the  Christian  Religion  au  pied 
de  la  lettre.  This  had  not  been  done  in  England  for  cen- 
turies. When  they  declared  every  Sunday  that  they  be- 


l8  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

lieved  in  the  Holy  Catholic  Church,  they  meant  it.  When 
they  repeated  the  Athanasian  Creed,  they  meant  it.  Even 
when  they  subscribed  to  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  they 
meant  it — or  at  least  they  thought  they  did.  Now  such 
a  state  of  mind  was  dangerous — more  dangerous,  indeed, 
than  they  at  first  realised.  They  had  started  with  the  inno- 
cent assumption  that  the  Christian  Religion  was  con- 
tained in  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England ;  but  the 
more  they  examined  into  this  matter,  the  more  difficult 
and  dubious  it  became.  The  Church  of  England  borel 
everywhere  upon  it  the  signs  of  human  imperfection;  it 
was  the  outcome  of  revolution  and  of  compromise,  of  the 
exigencies  of  politicians  and  the  caprices  of  princes,  of  the 
prejudices  of  theologians  and  the  necessities  of  the  State. 
How  had  it  happened  that  this  piece  of  patchwork  had 
become  the  receptacle  for  the  august  and  injfinite  mys- 
teries of  the  Christian  Faith?  This  was  the  problem  with 
which  Newman  and  his  friends  found  themselves  con- 
fronted. Other  men  might,  and  apparently  did,  see  noth- 
ing very  strange  in  such  a  situation;  but  other  men  saw 
in  Christianity  itself  scarcely  more  than  a  convenient  and 
respectable  appendage  to  existence,  by  which  a  sound  sys- 
tem of  morals  was  inculcated,  and  through  which  one 
might  hope  to  attain  to  everlasting  bliss.  To  Newman 
and  Keble  it  was  otherwise.  They  saw  a  transcendent  mani- 
festation of  Divine  power,  flowing  down  elaborate  and 
immense  through  the  ages;  a  consecrated  priesthood, 
stretching  back,  through  the  mystic  symbol  of  the  laying 
on  of  hands,  to  the  very  Godhead;  a  whole  universe  of 
spiritual  beings  brought  into  communion  with  the  Eternal 
by  means  of  wafers;  a  great  mass  of  metaphysical  doc- 
trines, at  once  incomprehensible  and  of  incalculable 
import,  laid  down  with  infinite  certitude;  they  saw  the 


CARDINAL    MANNING  I9 

supernatural  everywhere  and  at  all  times,  a  living  force, 
floating  invisible  in  angels,  inspiring  saints,  and  investing 
with  miraculous  properties  the  commonest  material 
things.  No  wonder  that  they  found  such  a  spectacle  hard 
to  bring  into  line  with  the  institution  which  had  been 
evolved  from  the  divorce  of  Henry  VIII.,  the  intrigues  of 
Elizabethan  parliaments,  and  the  Revolution  of  1688. 
They  did,  no  doubt,  soon  satisfy  themselves  that  they  had 
succeeded  in  this  apparently  hopeless  task;  but  the  con- 
clusions which  they  came  to  in  order  to  do  so  were 
decidedly  startling. 

The  Church  of  England,  they  declared,  was  indeed  the 
one  true  Church,  but  she  had  been  under  an  eclipse  since 
the  Reformation — in  fact,  since  she  had  begun  to  exist. 
She  had,  it  is  true,  escaped  the  corruptions  of  Rome;  but 
she  had  become  enslaved  by  the  secular  power,  and  de- 
graded by  the  false  doctrines  of  Protestantism.  The  Chris- 
tian Religion  was  still  preserved  intact  by  the  English 
priesthood,  but  it  was  preserved,  as  it  were,  unconsciously 
— a  priceless  deposit,  handed  down  blindly  from  genera- 
tion to  generation,  and  subsisting  less  by  the  will  of  man 
than  through  the  ordinance  of  God  as  expressed  in  the 
mysterious  virtue  of  the  Sacraments.  Christianity,  in 
short,  had  become  entangled  in  a  series  of  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstances from  which  it  was  the  plain  duty  of  Newman 
and  his  friends  to  rescue  it  forthwith.  What  was  curious 
was  that  this  task  had  been  reserved,  in  so  marked  a  man- 
ner, for  them.  Some  of  the  divines  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury had,  perhaps,  been  vouchsafed  glimpses  of  the  truth; 
but  they  were  glimpses  and  nothing  more.  No,  the  waters 
of  the  true  Faith  had  dived  underground  at  the  Reforma- 
tion, and  they  were  waiting  for  the  wand  of  Newman  to 
strike  the  rock  before  they  should  burst  forth  once  more 


20  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

into  the  light  of  day.  The  whole  matter,  no  doubt,  was 
Providential — what  other  explanation  could  there  be? 

The  first  step,  it  was  clear,  was  to  purge  the  Church 
of  her  shams  and  her  errors.  The  Reformers  must  be  ex- 
posed; the  yoke  of  the  secular  power  must  be  thrown  off; 
dogma  must  be  reinstated  in  its  old  pre-eminence;  and 
Christians  must  be  reminded  of  what  they  had  apparently 
forgotten — the  presence  of  the  supernatural  in  daily  life. 
"It  would  be  a  gain  to  this  country,"  Keble  observed, 
"were  it  vastly  more  superstitious,  more  bigoted,  more 
gloomy,  more  fierce  in  its  religion,  than  at  present  it  shows 
itself  to  be."  "The  only  good  I  know  of  Cranmer,"  said 
Hurrell  Froude,  "was  that  he  burnt  well."  Newman 
preached,  and  soon  the  new  views  began  to  spread.  Among 
the  earliest  of  the  converts  was  Dr.  Pusey,  a  man  of  wealth 
and  learning,  a  professor,  a  canon  of  Christ  Church,  who 
had,  it  was  rumoured,  been  to  Germany.  Then  the  Tracts 
for  the  Times  were  started  under  Newman's  editorship, 
and  the  Movement  was  launched  upon  the  world. 

The  Tracts  were  written  "with  the  hope  of  rousing 
members  of  our  Church  to  comprehend  her  alarming  posi- 
tion ...  as  a  man  might  give  notice  of  a  fire  or  inundation, 
to  startle  all  who  heard  him."  They  may  be  said  to  have 
succeeded  in  their  object,  for  the  sensation  which  they 
caused  among  clergymen  throughout  the  country  was 
extreme.  They  dealt  with  a  great  variety  of  questions,  but 
the  underlying  intention  of  all  of  them  was  to  attack  the 
accepted  doctrines  and  practices  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. Dr.  Pusey  wrote  learnedly  on  Baptismal  Regenera- 
tion; he  also  wrote  on  Fasting.  His  treatment  of  the  latter 
subject  met  with  considerable  disapproval,  which  sur- 
prised the  Doctor.  "I  was  not  prepared,"  he  said,  "for 


CARDINAL     MANNING  21 

people  questioning,  even  in  the  abstract,  the  duty  of 
fasting;  I  thought  serious-minded  persons  at  least  sup- 
posed they  practised  fasting  in  some  way  or  other.  I  as- 
sumed the  duty  to  be  acknowledged  and  thought  it  only 
undervalued."  We  live  and  learn,  even  though  we  have 
been  to  Germany. 

Other  tracts  discussed  the  Holy  Catholic  Church,  the 
Clergy,  and  the  Liturgy.  One  treated  of  the  question 
"whether  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  be  now 
bound  to  have  morning  and  evening  prayers  daily  in  his 
parish  church?"  Another  pointed  out  the  "Indications  of 
a  superintending  Providence  in  the  preservation  of  the 
Prayer-book  and  in  the  changes  which  it  has  undergone." 
Another  consisted  of  a  collection  of  "Advent  Sermons  on 
Antichrist."  Keble  wrote  a  long  and  elaborate  tract  "On 
the  Mysticism  attributed  to  the  Early  Fathers  of  the 
Church,"  in  which  he  expressed  his  opinions  upon  a  large 
number  of  curious  matters. 

According  to  men's  usual  way  of  talking  [he  wrote]  it  would 
be  called  an  accidental  circumstance  that  there  were  five  loaves, 
not  more  nor  less,  in  the  store  of  Our  Lord  and  His  disciples 
wherewith  to  provide  the  miraculous  feast.  But  the  ancient 
interpreters  treat  it  as  designed  and  providential,  in  this  surely 
not  erring:  and  their  conjecture  is  that  it  represents  the  sacrifice 
of  the  whole  world  of  sense,  and  especially  of  the  Old  Dispensa- 
tion, which,  being  outward  and  visible,  might  be  called  the  dis- 
pensation of  the  senses,  to  the  Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  to  be  a  pledge  and  means  of  communion  with  Him  ac- 
cording to  the  terms  of  the  new  or  evangelical  law.  This  idea 
they  arrive  at  by  considering  the  number  five,  the  number  of 
the  senses,  as  the  mystical  opponent  of  the  visible  and  sensible 
universe:  id  alaOi]ra.,  as  distinguished  from  la  vorjia.  Origen 
lays  down  the  »rule  in  express  terms.  "The  number  five,"  he  says, 
"frequently,  nay  almost  always,  is  taken  for  the  five  senses." 


22  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

In  another  passage,  Keble  deals  with  an  even  more  recon- 
dite question.  He  quotes  the  teaching  of  St.  Barnabas  that 
"Abraham,  who  first  gave  men  circumcision,  did  thereby 
perform  a  spiritual  and  typical  action,  looking  forward 
to  the  Son."  St.  Barnabas's  argument  is  as  follows:  Abra- 
ham circumcised  of  his  house  men  to  the  number  of  318. 
"Why  318?  Observe  first  the  18,  then  the  300.  Of  the  two 
letters  which  stand  for  18,  10  is  represented  by  I,  8  by  H. 
"Thou  hast  here,"  says  St.  Barnabas,  "the  word  of  Jesus." 
As  for  the  300,  "the  Cross  is  represented  by  Tau,  and  the 
letter  Tau  represents  that  number."  Unfortunately,  how- 
ever, St.  Barnabas's  premise  was  of  doubtful  validity,  as 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Maitland  pointed  out,  in  a  pamphlet  im- 
pugning the  conclusions  of  the  Tract. 

The  simple  fact  is  [he  wrote]  that  when  Abraham  pursued 
Chedorlaomer  "he  armed  his  trained  servants,  born  in  his  otcn 
house,  three  hundred  and  eighteen."  When,  more  than  thirteen 
(according  to  the  common  chronology,  fifteen)  years  after,  he 
circumcised  "all  the  men  of  his  house,  born  in  the  house,  and 
bought  xuith  money  of  the  stranger,"  and,  in  fact,  every  male 
who  was  as  much  as  eight  days  old,  we  are  not  told  what  the 
number  amounted  to.  Shall  we  suppose  (just  for  the  sake  of 
the  interpretation)  that  Abraham's  family  had  so  dwindled  in 
the  interval  as  that  now  all  the  males  of  his  household,  trained 
men,  slaves,  and  children,  equalled  only  and  exactly  the  number 
of  his  warriors  15  years  before? 

The  question  seems  difficult  to  answer,  but  Keble  had,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  forestalled  the  argument  in  the  following 
passage,  which  had  apparently  escaped  the  notice  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Maitland. 

Now  whether  the  facts  were  really  so  or  not  (if  it  were,  it 
was  surely  by  special  providence),  that  Abraham's  household 
at  the  time  of  the  circumcision  was  exactly  the  same  number 


CARDINAL     MANNING  23 

as  before;  still  the  argument  of  St.  Barnabas  will  stand.  As 
thus:  circumcision  had  from  the  beginning  a  reference  to  our 
Saviour,  as  in  other  respects,  so  in  this;  that  the  mystical 
number,  which  is  the  cypher  of  Jesus  crucified,  was  the  number 
of  the  first  circumcised  household  in  the  strength  of  which 
Abraham  prevailed  against  the  powers  of  the  world.  So  St. 
Clement  of  Alexandria,  as  cited  by  Fell. 

And  Keble  supports  his  contention  through  ten  pages  of 
close  print,  with  references  to  Aristeas,  St.  Augustin,  St. 
Jerome,  and  Dr.  "Whitby. 

Writings  of  this  kind  could  not  fail  of  their  effect.  Pious 
youths  in  Oxford  were  carried  away  by  them,  and  began  to 
flock  round  the  standard  of  Newman.  Newman  himself 
became  a  party  chief,  encouraging,  organising,  persuad- 
ing. His  long  black  figure,  swiftly  passing  through  the 
streets,  was  pointed  at  with  awe;  his  sermons  were 
crowded;  his  words  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
"Credo  in  Newmannum"  became  a  common  catchword. 
Jokes  were  made  about  the  Church  of  England,  and 
practices,  unknown  for  centuries,  began  to  be  revived. 
Young  men  fasted  and  did  penance,  recited  the  hours  of 
the  Roman  Breviary,  and  confessed  their  sins  to  Dr. 
Pusey.  Nor  was  the  movement  confined  to  Oxford;  it 
spread  in  widening  circles  through  the  parishes  of  Eng- 
land; the  dormant  devotion  of  the  country  was  suddenly 
aroused.  The  new  strange  notion  of  taking  Christianity 
literally  was  delightful  to  earnest  minds;  but  it  was  also 
alarming.  Really  to  mean  every  word  you  said,  when  you 
repeated  the  Athanasian  Creed!  How  wonderful!  And 
what  enticing  and  mysterious  vistas  burst  upon  the  view! 
But  then,  those  vistas,  where  were  they  leading  to?  Sup- 
posing— oh  heavens! — supposing  after  all  they  were  to 
lead  to ! 


Ill 

In  due  course  the  Tracts  made  their  appearance  at  the 
remote  Rectory  in  Sussex.  Manning  was  some  years 
younger  than  Newman,  and  the  two  men  had  only  met 
occasionally  at  the  University;  but  now,  through  common 
friends,  a  closer  relationship  began  to  grow  up  between 
them.  It  was  only  to  be  expected  that  Newman  should  be 
anxious  to  enroll  the  rising  young  Rector  among  his  fol- 
lowers; and  on  Manning's  side  there  were  many  causes 
which  impelled  him  to  accept  the  overtures  from  Oxford. 

He  was  a  man  of  a  serious  and  vigorous  temperament,- 
to  whom  it  was  inevitable  that  the  bold,  high  principles  of 
the  Movement  should  strongly  appeal.  There  was  also  an 
element  in  his  mind — that  element  which  had  terrified 
him  in  his  childhood  with  Apocalyptic  visions,  and  urged 
him  in  his  youth  to  Bible  readings  after  breakfast — which 
now  brought  him  under  the  spell  of  the  Oxford  theories 
of  sacramental  mysticism.  And  besides,  the  Movement  of- 
fered another  attraction;  it  imputed  an  extraordinary,  a 
transcendent  merit  to  the  profession  which  Manning  him- 
self pursued.  The  cleric  was  not  as  his  lay  brethren;  he  was 
a  creature  apart,  chosen  by  Divine  will  and  sanctified  by 
Divine  mysteries.  It  was  a  relief  to  find,  when  one  had 
supposed  that  one  was  nothing  but  a  clergyman,  that  one 
might,  after  all,  be  something  else — one  might  be  a  priest. 

Accordingly,  Manning  shook  off  his  early  Evangelical 
convictions,  started  an  active  correspondence  with  New- 
man, and  was  soon  working  for  the  new  cause.  He  col- 
lected quotations,  and  began  to  translate  the  works  of 

2  + 


CARDINAL     MANNING  25 

Optatus  for  Dr.  Pusey.  He  wrote  an  article  on  Justin  for 
the  British  Critic,  Newman's  magazine.  He  published  a 
sermon  on  Faith,  with  notes  and  appendices,  which  was 
condemned  by  an  Evangelical  bishop,  and  fiercely  attacked 
by  no  less  a  person  than  the  celebrated  Mr.  Bowdler.  "The 
sermon,"  said  Mr.  Bowdler,  in  a  book  which  he  devoted  to 
the  subject,  "was  bad  enough,  but  the  appendix  was 
abominable."  At  the  same  time  he  was  busy  asserting  the 
independence  of  the  Church  of  England,  opposing  secular 
education,  and  bringing  out  pamphlets  against  the  Eccle- 
siastical Commission,  which  had  been  appointed  by  Parlia- 
ment to  report  on  Church  Property.  Then  we  find  him  in 
the  role  of  a  spiritual  director  of  souls.  Ladies  met  him  by 
stealth  in  his  church,  and  made  their  confessions.  Over  one 
case — that  of  a  lady,  who  found  herself  drifting  towards 
Rome — he  consulted  Newman.  Newman  advised  him  to 
"enlarge  upon  the  doctrine  of  I  Cor.  vii."; — 

also  I  think  you  must  press  on  her  the  prospect  of  benefiting 
the  poor  Church,  through  which  she  has  her  baptism,  by  stop- 
ping in  it.  Does  she  not  care  for  the  souls  of  all  around  her, 
steeped  and  stifled  in  Protestantism?  How  will  she  best  care  for 
them:  by  indulging  her  own  feelings  in  the  communion  of 
Rome,  or  in  denying  herself,  and  staying  in  sackcloth  and  ashes 
to  do  them  good.'' 

Whether  these  arguments  were  successful  does  not  appear. 
For  several  years  after  his  wife's  death  Manning  was 
occupied  with  these  new  activities,  while  his  relations  with 
Newman  developed  into  what  was  apparently  a  warm 
friendship.  "And  now  vive  valeqiie,  my  dear  Manning," 
we  find  Newman  writing  in  a  letter  dated  "in  f  esto  S.  Car. 
1838,"  "as  wishes  and  prays  yours  affectionately  John  H. 
Newman."  But,  as  time  went  on,  the  situation  became 
more  complicated.  Tractarianism  began  to  arouse  the  hos- 


26  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

tility,  not  only  of  the  Evangelical,  but  of  the  moderate 
churchmen,  who  could  not  help  perceiving,  in  the  ever 
deepening  "Catholicism"  of  the  Oxford  party,  the  dread 
approaches  of  Rome.  The  Record  newspaper — an  influen- 
tial Evangelical  journal — took  up  the  matter,  and  sniffed 
Popery  in  every  direction;  it  spoke  of  certain  clergymen 
as  "tainted";  and  after  that,  Manning  seemed  to  pass  those 
clergymen  by.  The  fact  that  Manning  found  it  wise  to 
conduct  his  confessional  ministrations  in  secret  was  in 
itself  highly  significant.  It  was  necessary  to  be  careful, 
I  nd  Manning  was  very  careful  indeed.  The  neighbouring 
Archdeacon,  Mr.  Hare,  was  a  low  churchman;  Manning 
made  friends  with  him,  as  warmly,  it  seemed,  as  he  had 
made  friends  with  Newman.  He  corresponded  with  him, 
asked  his  advice  about  the  books  he  should  read,  and  dis- 
cussed questions  of  Theology — "As  to  Gal.  vi.  15,  we  can- 
not differ.  . .  .  With  a  man  who  reads  and  reasons  I  can 
have  no  controversy;  and  you  do  both."  Archdeacon  Hare 
was  pleased,  but  soon  a  rumour  reached  him,  which  was, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  upsetting.  Manning  had  been  re- 
moving the  high  pews  from  a  church  in  Brighton,  and  put- 
ting in  open  benches  in  their  place.  Everyone  knew  what 
that  meant;  everyone  knew  that  a  high  pew  was  one  of  the 
bulwarks  of  Protestantism,  and  that  an  open  bench  had 
upon  it  the  taint  of  Rome.  But  Manning  hastened  to  ex- 
plain. 

My  dear  friend  [he  wrote]  I  did  not  exchange  pews  for  open 
benches,  but  got  the  pews  (the  same  in  number)  moved  from 
the  nave  of  the  church  to  the  walls  of  the  side  aisles,  so  that 
the  whole  church  has  a  regular  arrangement  of  open  benches, 
which  (irregularly)  existed  before  ...  I  am  not  to-day  quite 
well,  so  farewell,  with  much  regard — Yours  ever,  H.  E.  M. 

Vrchdeacon  Hare  was  reassured. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  27 

It  was  important  that  he  should  be,  for  the  Archdeacon 
of  Chichester  was  growing  very  old,  and  Hare's  influence 
might  be  exceedingly  useful  when  a  vacancy  occurred. 
So,  indeed,  it  fell  out.  A  new  bishop.  Dr.  Shuttleworth, 
was  appointed  to  the  See,  and  the  old  Archdeacon  took  the 
opportunity  of  retiring.  Manning  was  obviously  marked 
out  as  his  successor,  but  the  new  bishop  happened  to  be  a 
low  churchman,  an  aggressive  low  churchman,  who  went 
so  far  as  to  parody  the  Tractarian  fashion  of  using  Saints' 
days  for  the  dating  of  letters  by  writing  "The  Palace, 
washing  day,"  at  the  beginning  of  his.  And — what  was 
equally  serious — his  views  were  shared  by  Mrs.  Shuttle- 
worth,  who  had  already  decided  that  the  pushing  young 
Rector  was  "tainted."  But  at  the  critical  moment  Arch- 
deacon Hare  came  to  the  rescue;  he  persuaded  the  Bishop 
that  Manning  was  safe;  and  the  appointment  was  accord- 
ingly made — behind  Mrs.  Shuttleworth's  back.  She  was 
furious,  but  it  was  too  late;  Manning  was  an  Archdeacon. 
All  the  lady  could  do,  to  indicate  her  disapprobation,  was 
to  put  a  copy  of  Mr.  Bowdler's  book  in  a  conspicuous  posi- 
tion on  the  drawing-room  table,  when  he  came  to  pay  his 
respects  at  the  Palace. 

Among  the  letters  of  congratulation  which  Manning 
received  was  one  from  Mr.  Gladstone,  with  whom  he  had 
remained  on  terms  of  close  friendship  since  their  days  to- 
gether at  Oxford. 

I  rejoice  [Mr.  Gladstone  wrote]  on  your  account  personally: 
but  more  for  the  sake  of  the  Church.  All  my  brothers-in-law 
are  here  and  scarcely  less  delighted  than  I  am.  With  great  glee 
am  I  about  to  write  your  new  address;  but  the  occasion  really 
calls  for  higher  sentiments;  and  sure  am  I  that  you  are  one  of 
the  men  to  whom  it  is  specially  given  to  develop  the  solution  of 
that  great  problem — how  all  our  minor  distractions  are  to  be 


28  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

either  abandoned,  absorbed,  or  harmonised,  through  the  might 

of  the  great  principle  of  communion  in  the  body  of  Christ. 

Manning  was  an  Archdeacon;  but  he  was  not  yet  out  of 
the  wood.  His  relations  with  the  Tractarians  had  leaked 
out,  and  the  Record  was  beginning  to  be  suspicious.  If 
Mrs.  Shuttleworth's  opinion  of  him  were  to  become  gen- 
eral, it  would  certainly  be  a  grave  matter.  Nobody  could 
wish  to  live  and  die  a  mere  Archdeacon.  And  then,  at  that 
very  moment,  an  event  occurred  which  made  it  imperative 
to  take  a  definite  step,  one  way  or  the  other.  That  event 
was  the  publication  of  Tract  No.  90. 

For  some  time  it  had  been  obvious  to  every  impartial 
onlooker  that  Newman  was  slipping  down  an  inclined 
plane  at  the  bottom  of  which  lay  one  thing,  and  one  thing 
only — the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  What  was  surprising 
was  the  length  of  time  which  he  was  taking  to  reach  the 
inevitable  destination.  Years  passed  before  he  came  to  real- 
ise that  his  grandiose  edifice  of  a  Church  Universal  would 
crumble  to  pieces  if  one  of  its  foundation  stones  was  to 
be  an  amatory  intrigue  of  Henry  VIII.  But  at  last  he  began 
to  see  that  terrible  monarch  glowering  at  him  wherever 
he  turned  his  eyes.  First  he  tried  to  exorcise  the  spectre 
with  the  rolling  periods  of  the  Caroline  divines;  but  it  only 
strutted  the  more  truculently.  Then  in  despair  he  plunged 
into  the  writings  of  the  early  Fathers,  and  sought  to  dis- 
cover some  way  out  of  his  difficulties  in  the  complicated 
labyrinth  of  ecclesiastical  history.  After  months  spent  in 
the  study  of  the  Monophysite  heresy,  the  alarming  con- 
clusion began  to  force  itself  upon  him  that  the  Church 
of  England  was  perhaps  in  schism.  Eventually  he  read  an 
article  by  a  Roman  Catholic  on  St.  Augustine  and  the  Do- 
natists,  which  seemed  to  put  the  matter  beyond  doubt.  St. 
Augustine,  in  the  fifth  century,  had  pointed  out  that  the 


CARDINAL     MANNING  29 

Donatlsts  were  heretics  because  the  Bishop  of  Rome  had 
said  so.  The  argument  was  crushing;  it  rang  in  Newman's 
ears  for  days  and  nights;  and,  though  he  continued  to 
linger  on  in  agony  for  six  years  more,  he  never  could 
discover  any  reply  to  it.  All  he  could  hope  to  do  was  to 
persuade  himself  and  anyone  else  who  liked  to  listen  to 
him  that  the  holding  of  Anglican  orders  was  not  incon- 
sistent with  a  belief  in  the  whole  cycle  of  Roman  doctrine, 
as  laid  down  at  the  Council  of  Trent.  In  this  way  he  sup- 
posed that  he  could  at  once  avoid  the  deadly  sin  of  heresy 
and  conscientiously  remain  a  clergyman  in  the  Church  of 
England;  and  with  this  end  in  view  he  composed  Tract 
No.  90. 

The  object  of  the  Tract  was  to  prove  that  there  was 
nothing  in  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  incompatible  with 
the  creed  of  the  Roman  Church.  Newman  pointed  out, 
for  instance,  that  it  was  generally  supposed  that  the 
Articles  condemned  the  doctrine  of  Purgatory;  but  they 
did  not;  they  merely  condemned  the  Romish  doctrine  of 
Purgatory;  and  Romish,  clearly,  was  not  the  same  thing 
as  Roman.  Hence  it  followed  that  believers  in  the  Roman 
doctrine  of  Purgatory  might  subscribe  the  Articles  with  a 
good  conscience.  Similarly,  the  Articles  condemned  "the 
sacrifice  of  the  masses,"  but  they  did  not  condemn  "the 
sacrifice  of  the  Mass."  Thus  the  Mass  might  be  lawfully 
celebrated  in  English  Churches.  Newman  took  the  trouble 
to  examine  the  Articles  in  detail  from  this  point  of  view, 
and  the  conclusion  he  came  to  in  every  case  supported  his 
contention  in  a  singular  manner. 

The  Tract  produced  an  immense  sensation,  for  it 
seemed  to  be  a  deadly  and  treacherous  blow  aimed  at  the 
very  heart  of  the  Church  of  England.  Deadly  it  certainly 


30  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

was,  but  it  was  not  so  treacherous  as  at  first  sight  ap- 
peared. The  members  of  the  EngHsh  Church  had  ingenu- 
ously imagined  up  to  that  moment  that  it  was  possible  to 
contain  in  a  frame  of  words  the  subtle  essence  of  their 
complicated  doctrinal  system,  involving  the  mysteries  of 
the  Eternal  and  the  Infinite  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
elaborate  adjustments  of  temporal  government  on  the 
other.  They  did  not  understand  that  verbal  definitions  In 
such  a  case  will  only  perform  their  functions  so  long  as 
there  is  no  dispute  about  the  matters  which  they  are  In- 
tended to  define:  that  is  to  say,  so  long  as  there  is  no  need 
for  them.  For  generations  this  had  been  the  case  with  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles.  Their  drift  was  clear  enough;  and 
nobody  bothered  over  their  exact  meaning.  But  directly 
someone  found  it  important  to  give  them  a  new  and  un- 
traditional  Interpretation,  it  appeared  that  they  were  a 
mass  of  ambiguity,  and  might  be  twisted  into  meaning 
very  nearly  anything  that  anybody  liked.  Steady-going 
churchmen  were  appalled  and  outraged  when  they  saw 
Newman,  in  Tract  No.  90,  performing  this  operation. 
But,  after  all,  he  was  only  taking  the  Church  of  England 
at  its  word.  And  indeed,  since  Newman  showed  the  way, 
the  operation  has  become  so  exceedingly  common  that 
the  most  steady-going  churchman  hardly  raises  an  eye- 
brow at  it  now. 

At  the  time,  however,  Newman's  treatment  of  the 
Articles  seemed  to  display  not  only  a  perverted  super- 
subtlety  of  intellect,  but  a  temper  of  mind  that  was 
fundamentally  dishonest.  It  was  then  that  he  first  be- 
gan to  be  assailed  by  those  charges  of  untruthfulness 
which  reached  their  culmination  more  than  twenty  years 
later  in  the  celebrated  controversy  with  Charles  Kingsley, 
which  led  to  the  writing  of  the  Apologia.  The  controversy 


CARDINAL     MANNING  3I 

was  not  a  very  fruitful  one,  chiefly  because  Kingsley  could 
no  more  understand  the  nature  of  Newman's  intelligence 
than  a  subaltern  in  a  line  regiment  can  understand  a 
Brahmin  of  Benares.  Kingsley  was  a  stout  Protestant, 
whose  hatred  of  Popery  was,  at  bottom,  simply  ethical — 
an  honest,  instinctive  horror  of  the  practices  of  priestcraft 
and  the  habits  of  superstition;  and  it  was  only  natural 
that  he  should  see  in  those  innumerable  delicate  distinc- 
tions which  Newman  was  perpetually  drawing,  and 
which  he  himself  had  not  only  never  thought  of,  but 
could  not  even  grasp,  simply  another  manifestation  of 
the  inherent  falsehood  of  Rome.  But,  in  reality,  no  one,  in 
one  sense  of  the  word,  was  more  truthful  than  Newman. 
The  idea  of  deceit  would  have  been  abhorrent  to  him; 
and  indeed  it  was  owing  to  his  very  desire  to  explain  what 
he  had  in  his  mind  exactly  and  completely,  with  all  the 
refinements  of  which  his  subtle  brain  was  capable,  that 
persons  such  as  Kingsley  were  puzzled  into  thinking  him 
dishonest.  Unfortunately,  however,  the  possibilities  of 
truth  and  falsehood  depend  upon  other  things  besides 
sincerity.  A  man  may  be  of  a  scrupulous  and  impeccable 
honesty,  and  yet  his  respect  for  the  truth — it  cannot  be 
denied — may  be  insuflficient.  He  may  be,  like  the  lunatic, 
the  lover,  and  the  poet,  "of  imagination  all  compact";  he 
may  be  blessed,  or  cursed,  with  one  of  those  "seething 
brains,"  one  of  those  "shaping  fantasies"  that  "apprehend 
more  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends";  he  may  be  by 
nature  incapable  of  sifting  evidence,  or  by  predilection 
simply  indisposed  to  do  so.  "When  we  were  there,"  wrote 
Newman  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  after  his  conversion, 
describing  a  visit  to  Naples,  and  the  miraculous  circum- 
stances connected  with  the  liquefaction  of  St.  Januarius's 
blood, 


32  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

the  feast  of  St.  Gennaro  was  coming  on,  and  the  Jesuits  were 
eager  for  us  to  stop — they  have  the  utmost  confidence  in  the 
miracle — and  were  the  more  eager  because  many  CathoHcs,  till 
they  have  seen  it,  doubt  it.  Our  father  director  here  tells  us 
that  before  he  went  to  Naples  he  did  not  believe  it.  That  is, 
they  have  vague  ideas  of  natural  means,  exaggeration,  etc.,  not 
of  course  imputing  fraud.  They  say  conversions  often  take 
place  in  consequence.  It  is  exposed  for  the  Octave,  and  the 
miracle  continues — it  is  not  simple  liquefaction,  but  sometimes 
it  swells,  sometimes  boils,  sometimes  melts — no  one  can  tell 
what  is  going  to  take  place.  They  say  it  is  quite  overcoming — 
and  people  cannot  help  crying  to  see  it.  I  understand  that  Sir 
H.  Davy  attended  every  day,  and  it  was  this  extreme  variety 
of  the  phenomenon  which  convinced  him  that  nothing  physical 
would  account  for  it.  Yet  there  is  this  remarkable  fact,  that 
liquefactions  of  blood  are  common  at  Naples — and  unless  it  is 
irreverent  to  the  Great  Author  of  Miracles  to  be  obstinate  in 
the  inquiry,  the  question  certainly  rises  whether  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  air.  (Mind,  I  don't  believe  there  is — and,  speaking 
humbly,  and  without  having  seen  it,  think  it  a  true  miracle — 
but  I  am  arguing.)  We  satv  the  blood  of  St.  Patrizia,  half  liquid; 
i.e.  liquefying,  on  her  feast  day.  St.  John  Baptist's  blood  some- 
times liquefies  on  the  29th  of  August,  and  did  when  we  were 
at  Naples,  but  we  had  not  time  to  go  to  the  church.  We  saw  the 
liquid  blood  of  an  Oratorian  Father,  a  good  man,  but  not  a 
saint,  who  died  two  centuries  ago,  I  think;  and  we  saw  the 
liquid  blood  of  Da  Ponte,  the  great  and  Holy  Jesuit,  v/ho,  I 
suppose,  was  almost  a  saint.  But  these  instances  do  not  account 
for  liquefaction  on  certain  days,  if  this  is  the  case.  But  the  most 
strange  phenomenon  is  what  happens  at  Ravello,  a  village  or 
town  above  Amalfi.  There  is  the  blood  of  St.  Pantaloon.  It  is  in 
a  vessel  amid  the  stonework  of  the  Altar — it  is  not  touched — < 
but  on  his  feast  in  June  it  liquefies.  And  more,  there  is  an  ex- 
communication against  those  who  bring  portions  of  the  True 
Cross  into  the  Church.  Why?  Because  the  blood  liquefies, 
whenever  it  is  brought.  A  person  I  know,  not  knowing  the  pro- 


CARDINAL     MANNING  33 

hibition,  brought  in  a  portion — and  the  Priest  suddenly  said, 
who  showed  the  blood,  "Who  has  got  the  Holy  Cross  about 
him?"  I  tell  you  what  was  told  me  by  a  grave  and  religious 
man.  It  is  a  curious  coincidence  that  in  telling  this  to  our  Father 
Director  here,  he  said,  "Why,  we  have  a  portion  of  St.  Panta- 
loon's blood  at  the  Chiesa  Nuova,  and  it  is  always  liquid." 

After  leaving  Naples,  Newman  visited  Loreto,  and 
inspected  the  house  of  the  Holy  Family,  which,  as  is 
known  to  the  faithful,  was  transported  thither,  in  three 
hops,  from  Palestine. 

I  went  to  Loreto  [he  wrote]  with  a  simple  faith,  believing 
what  I  still  more  believed  when  I  saw  it.  I  have  no  doubt  /low. 
If  you  ask  me  why  I  believe,  it  is  because  every  one  believes  it 
at  Rome;  cautious  as  they  are  and  sceptical  about  some  other 
things.  7  have  no  antecedent  dijficulty  in  the  matter.  He  who 
floated  the  Ark  on  the  surges  of  a  world-wide  sea,  and  enclosed 
in  it  all  living  things,  who  has  hidden  the  terrestrial  paradise, 
who  said  that  faith  might  move  mountains,  who  sustained 
thousands  for  forty  years  in  a  sterile  wilderness,  who  trans- 
ported Elias  and  keeps  him  hidden  till  the  end,  could  do  this 
wonder  also. 

Here,  whatever  else  there  may  be,  there  is  certainly 
no  trace  of  a  desire  to  deceive.  Could  a  state  of  mind, 
In  fact,  be  revealed  with  more  absolute  transparency? 

"When  Newman  was  a  child  he  "wished  that  he  could 
believe  the  Arabian  Nights  were  true."  When  he  came  to 
be  a  man,  his  wish  seems  to  have  been  granted. 

Tract  No.  90  was  officially  condemned  by  the  au- 
thorities at  Oxford,  and  in  the  hubbub  that  followed 
the  contending  parties  closed  their  ranks;  henceforward 
any  compromise  between  the  friends  and  the  enemies  of 
the  Movement  was  impossible.  Archdeacon  Manning  was 
in  too  conspicuous  a  position  to  be  able  to  remain  silent; 


34  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

he  was  obliged  to  declare  himself,  and  he  did  not  hesitate. 
In  an  archidiaconal  charge,  delivered  within  a  few  months 
of  his  appointment,  he  firmly  repudiated  the  Tractarians. 
But  the  repudiation  was  not  deemed  sufficient,  and  a  year 
later  he  repeated  it  with  greater  emphasis.  Still,  however, 
the  horrid  rumours  were  afloat.  The  Record  began  to 
investigate  matters,  and  its  vigilance  was  soon  rewarded 
by  an  alarming  discovery:  the  sacrament  had  been  ad- 
ministered in  Chichester  Cathedral  on  a  week-day,  and 
"Archdeacon  Manning,  one  of  the  most  noted  and  de- 
termined of  the  Tractarians,  had  acted  a  conspicuous  part 
on  the  occasion."  It  was  clear  that  the  only  way  of 
silencing  these  malevolent  whispers  was  by  some  public 
demonstration  whose  import  nobody  could  doubt.  The 
annual  sermon  preached  on  Guy  Fawkes  Day  before  the 
University  of  Oxford  seemed  to  offer  the  very  opportu- 
nity that  Manning  required.  He  seized  it;  got  himself 
appointed  preacher;  and  delivered  from  the  pulpit  of 
St.  Mary's  a  virulently  Protestant  harangue.  This  time 
there  could  Indeed  be  no  doubt  about  the  matter: 
Manning  had  shouted  "No  Popery!"  in  the  very  citadel 
of  the  Movement,  and  everyone,  including  Newman, 
recognised  that  he  had  finally  cut  himself  off  from  his 
old  friends.  Everyone,  that  is  to  say,  except  the  Arch- 
deacon himself.  On  the  day  after  the  sermon.  Manning 
walked  out  to  the  neighbouring  village  of  Littlemore, 
where  Newman  was  now  living  in  retirement  with  a  few 
chosen  disciples,  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to  give  a  satis- 
factory explanation  of  what  he  had  done.  But  he  was 
disappointed;  for  when,  after  an  awkward  Interval,  one 
of  the  disciples  appeared  at  the  door,  he  was  informed 
that  Mr.  Newman  was  not  at  home. 

With  his  retirement  to  Littlemore,  Newman  had  en- 


CARDINAL     MANNING  }5 

tered  upon  the  final  period  of  his  AngHcan  career.  Even 
he  could  no  longer  help  perceiving  that  the  end  was  now- 
only  a  matter  of  time.  His  progress  was  hastened  in  an 
agitating  manner  by  the  indiscreet  activity  of  one  of  his 
proselytes,  W.  G.  Ward,  a  young  man  who  combined  an 
extraordinary  aptitude  for  a  priori  reasoning  with  a 
passionate  devotion  to  Opera  Bouffe.  It  was  difficult,  in 
fact,  to  decide  whether  the  inner  nature  of  Ward  was 
more  truly  expressing  itself  when  he  was  firing  off  some 
train  of  scholastic  paradoxes  on  the  Eucharist  or  when 
he  was  trilling  the  airs  of  Figaro  and  plunging  through 
the  hilarious  roulades  of  the  Largo  al  Factotum.  Even  Dr. 
Pusey  could  not  be  quite  sure,  though  he  was  Ward's 
spiritual  director.  On  one  occasion  his  young  penitent 
came  to  him,  and  confessed  that  a  vow  which  he  had 
taken  to  abstain  from  music  during  Lent  was  beginning 
to  affect  his  health.  Could  Dr.  Pusey  see  his  way  to  re- 
leasing him  from  the  vow?  The  Doctor  decided  that  a 
little  sacred  music  would  not  be  amiss.  Ward  was  all 
gratitude,  and  that  night  a  party  was  arranged  in  a 
friend's  rooms.  The  concert  began  with  the  solemn 
harmonies  of  Handel,  which  were  followed  by  the  holy 
strains  of  the  "O  Salutaris"  of  Cherubini.  Then  came  the 
elevation  and  the  pomp  of  "Possenti  Numi"  from  the 
Magic  Flute.  But,  alas!  there  lies  much  danger  in  Mozart. 
The  page  was  turned,  and  there  was  the  delicious  duet 
between  Papageno  and  Papagena.  Flesh  and  blood  could 
not  resist  that;  then  song  followed  song,  the  music  waxed 
faster  and  lighter,  until  at  last  Ward  burst  into  the 
intoxicating  merriment  of  the  Largo  al  Factotum.  When 
it  was  over  a  faint  but  persistent  knocking  made  Itself 
heard  upon  the  wall;  and  It  was  only  then  that  the  com- 


3^  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

pany  remembered  that  the  rooms  next  door  were  Dr. 
Pusey's. 

The  same  entrainevient  which  carried  Ward  away 
when  he  sat  down  to  a  piano  possessed  him  whenever  he 
embarked  on  a  reHgior.s  discussion.  "The  thing  that  was 
utterly  abhorrent  to  him,"  said  one  of  his  friends,  "was 
to  stop  short."  Given  the  premises,  he  would  follow  out 
their  implications  v/ith  the  mercilessness  of  a  medieval 
monk,  and  when  he  had  reached  the  last  limits  of  argu- 
ment be  ready  to  maintain  whatever  propositions  he 
might  find  there  with  his  dying  breath.  He  had  the  ex- 
treme Innocence  of  a  child  and  a  mathematician.  Cap- 
tivated by  the  glittering  eye  of  Newman,  he  swallowed 
whole  the  supernatural  conception  of  the  universe  which 
Newman  had  evolved,  accepted  it  as  a  fundamental 
premise,  and  began  at  once  to  deduce  from  it  whatsoever 
there  might  be  to  be  deduced.  His  very  first  deductions 
included  Irrefutable  proofs  of  (i)  God's  particular 
providence  for  individuals;  (2)  the  real  efficacy  of  inter- 
cessory prayer;  (3)  the  reality  of  our  communion  with 
the  saints  departed;  (4)  the  constant  presence  and  assist- 
ance of  the  angels  of  God.  Later  on  he  explained  mathe- 
matically the  importance  of  the  Ember  Days.  "Who  can 
tell,"  he  added,  "the  degree  of  blessing  lost  to  us  In  this 
land  by  neglecting,  as  we  alone  of  Christian  Churches 
do  neglect,  these  holy  days?"  He  then  proceeded  to  con- 
vict the  Reformers,  not  only  of  rebellion,  but  " — for  my 
own  part  I  see  not  how  we  can  avoid  adding — of  perjury." 
Every  day  his  arguments  became  more  extreme,  more 
rigorously  exact,  and  more  distressing  to  his  master. 
Newman  was  in  the  position  of  a  cautious  commander- 
in-chief  being  hurried  into  an  engagement  against  his 
will  by  a  dashing  cavalry  officer.  Ward  forced  him  for- 


CARDINAL     MANNING  37 

ward  step  by  step  towards — no!  he  could  not  bear  it;  he 
shuddered  and  drew  back.  But  it  was  of  no  avail.  In  vain 
did  Keble  and  Pusey  wring  their  hands  and  stretch  forth 
their  pleading  arms  to  their  now  vanishing  brother.  The 
fatal  moment  was  fast  approaching.  Ward  at  last  pub- 
lished a  devastating  book  in  which  he  proved  conclusively 
by  a  series  of  syllogisms  that  the  only  proper  course  for 
the  Church  of  England  was  to  repent  in  sack-cloth  and 
ashes  her  separation  from  the  Communion  of  Rome. 
The  reckless  author  was  deprived  of  his  degree  by  an 
outraged  University,  and  a  few  weeks  later  was  received 
into  the  Catholic  Church. 

Newman,  in  a  kind  of  despair,  had  flung  himself  into 
the  labours  of  historical  compilation.  His  views  of  history 
had  changed  since  the  days  when  as  an  undergraduate  he 
had  feasted  on  the  worldly  pages  of  Gibbon. 

Revealed  religion  [he  now  thought]  furnishes  facts  to  other 
sciences,  which  those  sciences,  left  to  themselves,  would  never 
reach.  Thus,  in  the  science  of  history,  the  preservation  of  our 
race  in  Noah's  ark  is  an  historical  fact,  which  history  never 
would  arrive  at  without  revelation. 

"With  these  principles  to  guide  him,  he  plunged  with  his 
disciples  into  a  prolonged  study  of  the  English  Saints. 
Biographies  soon  appeared  of  St.  Bega,  St.  Adamnan,  St. 
Gundleus,  St.  Guthlake,  Brother  Drithelm,  St.  Amphi- 
balus,  St.  Wulstan,  St.  Ebba,  St.  Neot,  St.  Ninian,  and 
Cunibert  the  Hermit.  Their  austerities,  their  virginity, 
and  their  miraculous  powers  were  described  in  detail. 
The  public  learnt  with  astonishment  that  St.  Ninian  had 
turned  a  staff  into  a  tree,  that  St.  German  had  stopped  a 
cock  from  crowing,  and  that  a  child  had  been  raised  from 
the  dead  to  convert  St.  Helier.  The  series  has  subsequently 


38  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

been  continued  by  a  more  modern  writer  whose  relation 
of  the  history  of  the  blessed  St.  Mael  contains,  perhaps, 
even  more  matter  for  edification  than  Newman's 
biographies.  At  the  time,  indeed,  those  works  caused  con- 
siderable scandal.  Clergymen  denounced  them  in  pam- 
phlets. St.  Cuthbert  was  described  by  his  biographer  as 
having  "carried  the  jealousy  of  women,  characteristic  of 
all  the  saints,  to  an  extraordinary  pitch."  An  example  was 
given:  whenever  he  held  a  spiritual  conversation  with  St. 
Ebba,  he  was  careful  to  spend  the  ensuing  hours  of  dark- 
ness "in  prayer,  up  to  his  neck  in  water." 

Persons  who  invent  such  tales  [wrote  one  indignant  com- 
mentator] cast  very  grave  and  just  suspicions  on  the  purity 
of  their  own  minds.  And  young  persons,  who  talk  and  think  in 
this  way,  are  in  extreme  danger  of  falling  into  sinful  habits. 
As  to  the  volumes  before  us,  the  authors  have,  in  their  fanatical 
panegyrics  of  virginity,  made  use  of  language  downright 
profane. 

One  of  the  disciples  at  LIttlemore  was  James  Anthony 
Froude,  the  younger  brother  of  Hurrell,  and  It  fell  to 
his  lot  to  be  responsible  for  the  biography  of  St.  Neot. 
While  he  was  composing  It,  he  began  to  feel  some  qualms. 
Saints  who  lighted  fires  with  icicles,  changed  bandits 
Into  wolves,  and  floated  across  the  Irish  Channel  on 
altar-stones,  produced  a  disturbing  effect  on  his  historical 
conscience.  But  he  had  promised  his  services  to  Newman, 
and  he  determined  to  carry  through  the  work  in  the  spirit 
In  which  he  had  begun  it.  He  did  so;  but  he  thought  It 
proper  to  add  the  following  sentence  by  way  of  conclu- 
sion: "This  is  all,  and  indeed  rather  more  than  all,  that 
Is  known  to  men  of  the  blessed  St.  Neot;  but  not  more 
than  is  known  to  the  angels  In  heaven." 


CARDINAL     MANNING  39 

Meanwhile  the  English  Roman  Catholics  were  grow- 
ing impatient;  was  the  great  conversion  never  coming, 
for  which  they  had  prayed  so  fervently  and  so  long? 
Dr.  Wiseman,  at  the  head  of  themf  was  watching  and 
waiting  with  special  eagerness.  His  hand  was  held  out 
under  the  ripening  fruit;  the  delicious  morsel  seemed  to 
be  trembling  on  its  stalk;  and  yet  it  did  not  fall.  At  last, 
unable  to  bear  the  suspense  any  longer,  he  dispatched  to 
Littlemore  Father  Smith,  an  old  pupil  of  Newman's,  who 
had  lately  joined  the  Roman  communion,  with  instruc- 
tions that  he  should  do  his  best,  under  cover  of  a  simple 
visit  of  friendship,  to  discover  how  the  land  lay.  Father 
Smith  was  received  somewhat  coldly,  and  the  conversa- 
tion ran  entirely  on  topics  which  had  nothing  to  do  with 
religion.  When  the  company  separated  before  dinner, 
he  was  beginning  to  think  that  his  errand  had  been  useless; 
but  on  their  reassembling  he  suddenly  noticed  that  New- 
man had  changed  his  trousers  and  that  the  colour  of  the 
pair  which  he  was  now  wearing  was  grey.  At  the  earliest 
moment,  the  emissary  rushed  back  post-haste  to  Dr. 
Wiseman.  "All  is  well,"  he  exclaimed;  "Newman  no 
longer  considers  that  he  is  in  Anglican  orders."  "Praise 
be  to  God!"  answered  Dr.  Wiseman.  "But  how  do  you 
know?"  Father  Smith  described  what  he  had  seen.  "Oh, 
is  that  all?  My  dear  father,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish?" 
But  Father  Smith  was  not  to  be  shaken.  "I  know  the 
man,"  he  said,  "and  I  know  what  it  means.  Newman  will 
come,  and  he  will  come  soon." 

And  Father  Smith  was  right.  A  few  weeks  later,  New- 
man suddenly  slipped  off  to  a  priest,  and  all  was  over. 
Perhaps  he  would  have  hesitated  longer  still,  if  he  could 
have  foreseen  how  he  was  to  pass  the  next  thirty  years 
of  his  unfortunate  existence;  but  the  future  was  hidden. 


40  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

and  all  that  was  certain  was  that  the  past  had  gone  for 
ever,  and  that  his  eyes  would  rest  no  more  upon  the  snap- 
dragons of  Trinity.  The  Oxford  Movement  was  now 
ended.  The  University  breathed  such  a  sigh  of  relief  as 
usually  follows  the  difficult  expulsion  of  a  hard  piece  of 
matter  from  a  living  organism,  and  actually  began  to  at- 
tend to  education.  As  for  the  Church  of  England,  she 
had  tasted  blood,  and  it  was  clear  that  she  would  never 
again  be  content  with  a  vegetable  diet.  Her  clergy,  how- 
ever, maintained  their  reputation  for  judicious  com- 
promise, for  they  followed  Newman  up  to  the  very  point 
beyond  which  his  conclusions  were  logical,  and,  while 
they  intoned,  confessed,  swung  incense,  and  burnt 
candles  with  the  exhilaration  of  converts,  they  yet  man- 
aged to  do  so  with  a  subtle  nuance  which  showed  that 
they  had  nothing  to  do  with  Rome.  Various  individuals 
underwent  more  violent  changes.  Several  had  preceded 
Newman  into  the  Roman  fold;  among  others  an  unhappy 
Mr.  Sibthorpe,  who  subsequently  changed  his  mind,  and 
returned  to  the  Church  of  his  fathers,  and  then — perhaps 
it  was  only  natural — changed  his  mind  again.  Many  more 
followed  Newman,  and  Dr.  Wiseman  was  particularly 
pleased  by  the  conversion  of  a  Mr.  Morris,  who,  as  he 
said,  was  "the  author  of  the  essay,  which  won  the  prize, 
on  the  best  method  of  proving  Christianity  to  the  Hin- 
doos." Hurrell  Froude  had  died  before  Newman  had 
read  the  fatal  article  on  St.  Augustine;  but  his  brother, 
James  Anthony,  together  with  Arthur  Clough,  the  poet, 
went  through  an  experience  which  was  more  distressing 
in  those  days  than  it  has  since  become;  they  lost  their 
faith.  With  this  difference,  however,  that  while  in 
Froude's  case  the  loss  of  his  faith  turned  out  to  be  rather 
like  the  loss  of  a  heavy  portmanteau,  which  one  after- 


CARDINAL     MANNING  4I 

wards  discovers  to  have  been  full  of  old  rags  and  brick- 
bats, Clough  was  made  so  uneasy  by  the  loss  of  his  that 
he  went  on  looking  for  it  everywhere  as  long  as  he  lived; 
but  somehow  he  never  could  find  it.  On  the  other  hand, 
Keble  and  Pusey  continued  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  to 
dance  in  an  exemplary  manner  upon  the  tight-rope  of 
High  Anglicanism;  in  such  an  exemplary  manner,  '.n^ 
deed,  that  the  tight-rope  has  its  dancers  still. 


Manning  was  now  thirty-eight,  and  it  was  clear  that  he 
was  the  rising  man  in  the  Church  of  England.  He  had 
many  powerful  connections:  he  was  the  brother-in-law 
of  Samuel  Wilberforce,  who  had  lately  been  made  a 
bishop;  he  v/as  a  close  friend  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  was 
a  Cabinet  Minister;  and  he  was  becoming  well  known  in 
the  influential  circles  of  society  in  London.  His  talent  for 
affairs  was  recognised  not  only  in  the  Church,  but  in 
the  world  at  large,  and  he  busied  himself  with  matters  of 
such  varied  scope  as  National  Education,  the  adminis- 
tration of  the  Poor  Law,  and  the  Employment  rf 
Women.  Mr.  Gladstone  kept  up  an  intimate  correspond- 
ence with  him  on  these  and  on  other  subjects,  mingling 
in  his  letters  the  details  of  practical  statesmanship  with 
the  speculations  of  a  religious  thinker. 

Sir  James  Graham  [he  wrote,  in  a  discussion  of  the  bastardy 
clauses  of  the  Poor  Law]  is  much  pleased  with  the  tone  of 
your  two  communications.  He  is  disposed,  without  putting  an 
end  to  the  application  of  the  workhouse  test  against  the 
mother,  to  make  the  remedy  against  the  putative  father  "real 
and  effective"  for  expenses  incurred  in  the  workhouse.  I  am 
not  enough  acquainted  to  know  whether  it  would  be  advisable 
to  go  further.  You  have  not  proposed  it;  and  I  am  disposed  to 
believe  that  only  with  a  revived  and  improved  discipline  in 
the  Church  can  we  hope  for  any  generally  effective  check 
upon  lawless  lust.  I  agree  with  you  eminently  [he  writes,  in  a 
later  letter]   in  your  doctrine  of  filtration.  But  it  sometimes 

42 


CARDINAL     MANNING  43 

occurs  to  me,  though  the  question  may  seem  a  strange  one,  how 
far  was  the  Reformation,  but  especially  the  Continental  Ref- 
ormation, designed  by  God,  in  the  region  of  final  causes,  for 
that  purification  of  the  Roman  Church  which  it  has  actually 
realised? 

In  his  archdeaconry,  Manning  lived  to  the  full  the 
active  life  of  a  country  clergyman.  His  slim,  athletic 
figure  was  seen  everywhere — in  the  streets  of  Chichester, 
or  on  the  lawns  of  the  neighbouring  rectories,  or  gallop- 
ing over  the  downs  in  breeches  and  gaiters,  or  cutting 
brilliant  figures  on  the  ice.  He  was  an  excellent  judge  of 
horseflesh,  and  the  pair  of  greys  which  drew  his  hooded 
phaeton  so  swiftly  through  the  lanes  were  the  admira- 
tion of  the  county.  His  features  were  already  beginning 
to  assume  their  ascetic  caste,  but  the  spirit  of  youth  had 
not  yet  fled  from  them,  so  that  he  seemed  to  combine 
the  attractions  of  dignity  and  grace.  He  was  a  good 
talker,  a  sympathetic  listener,  a  man  who  understood  the 
difficult  art  of  preserving  all  the  vigour  of  a  manly  char- 
acter and  yet  never  giving  offence.  No  wonder  that  his 
sermons  were  crowded,  no  wonder  that  his  spiritual  ad- 
vice was  sought  for  eagerly  by  an  ever-growing  crowd 
of  penitents,  no  wonder  that  men  would  say,  when  his 
name  was  mentioned,  "Oh,  Manning!  No  power  on  earth 
can  keep  him  from  a  bishopric!" 

Such  was  the  fair  outward  seeming  of  the  Arch- 
deacon's life;  but  the  inward  reality  was  different.  The 
more  active,  the  more  fortunate,  the  more  full  of  happy 
promise  his  existence  became,  the  more  persistently  was 
his  secret  imagination  haunted  by  a  dreadful  vision — 
the  lake  that  burneth  for  ever  with  brimstone  and  fire 
The  temptations  of  the  Evil  One  are  many,  Manning 
knew;  and  he  knew  also  that,  for  him  at  least,  the  most 


44  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

subtle  and  terrible  of  all  temptations  was  the  temptation 
of  worldly  success.  He  tried  to  reassure  himself,  but  it 
was  in  vain.  He  committed  his  thoughts  to  a  diary,  weigh- 
ing scrupulously  his  every  motive,  examining  with  re- 
lentless searchings  into  the  depths  of  his  heart.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  his  longings  for  preferment  were  merely 
legitimate  hopes  for  "an  elevation  into  a  sphere  of  higher 
usefulness."  But  no,  there  was  something  more  than  that. 
"I  do  feel  pleasure,"  he  noted,  "in  honour,  precedence, 
elevation,  the  society  of  great  people,  and  all  this  is  very 
shameful  and  mean."  After  Newman's  conversion,  he 
almost  convinced  himself  that  his  "visions  of  an  ec- 
clesiastical future"  were  justified  by  the  role  that  he 
would  play  as  a  "healer  of  the  breach  in  the  Church  of 
England."  Mr.  Gladstone  agreed  with  him;  but  there  was 
One  higher  than  Mr.  Gladstone,  and  did  He  agree? 

I  am  pierced  by  anxious  thoughts.  God  knows  what  my  desires 
have  been  and  are,  and  why  they  are  crossed.  ...  I  am  flatter- 
ing myself  with  a  fancy  about  depth  and  reality.  .  .  .  The 
great  question  is:  Is  God  enough  for  you  note?  And  if  you  are 
as  now,  even  to  the  end  of  life,  will  it  suffice  you?  .  .  .  Cer- 
tainly I  v/ould  rather  choose  to  be  stayed  on  God,  than  to  be 
in  the  thrones  of  the  world  and  the  Church.  Nothing  else  will 
go  into  Eternity. 

In  a  moment  of  ambition,  he  had  applied  for  the 
Readership  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  but,  owing  chiefly  to  the 
hostile  influence  of  the  Record,  the  appointment  had 
gone  elsewhere.  A  little  later,  a  more  important  posi- 
tion was  offered  to  him — the  office  of  sub-almoner  to  the 
Queen,  which  had  just  been  vacated  by  the  Archbishop  of 
York,  and  was  alm.ost  certain  to  lead  to  a  mitre.  The  offer 
threw  Manning  into  an  agony  of  self-examination.  He 
drew  up  elaborate  tables,  after  the  manner  of  Robinson 


CARDINAL     MANNING  45 

Crusoe,  with  the  reasons  for  and  against  his  acceptance 
of  the  post: — 

For.  Against. 

1.  That  it  comes  unsought.      i.     Not    therefore   to   be   ac- 

cepted.   Such    things    are 
trials   as  well  as  leadings. 

2.  That  it  is  honourable.  2.     Being  what  I  am,  ought  I 

not    therefore    to    decHne 
it — 
(i)   as  humiliation; 

(2)  as  revenge  on  myself  for 
Lincoln's  Inn; 

(3)  as  a  testimony? 

And  so  on.  He  found  in  the  end  ten  "negative  reasons," 
with  no  affirmative  ones  to  balance  them,  and,  after  a 
week's  deliberation,  he  rejected  the  offer. 

But  peace  of  mind  was  as  far  off  from  him  as  ever. 
First  the  bitter  thought  came  to  him  that  "in  all  this 
Satan  tells  me  I  am  doing  it  to  be  thought  mortified  and 
holy";  and  then  he  was  obsessed  by  the  still  bitterer  feel- 
ings of  ineradicable  disappointment  and  regret.  He  had 
lost  a  great  opportunity,  and  it  brought  him  small  com- 
fort to  consider  that  "in  the  region  of  counsels,  self-chas- 
tisement, humiliation,  self-discipline,  penance,  and  of 
the  Cross"  he  had  perhaps  done  right. 

The  crisis  passed,  but  it  was  succeeded  by  a  fiercer 
one.  Manning  was  taken  seriously  ill,  and  became  con- 
vinced that  he  might  die  at  any  moment.  The  entries  in 
his  diary  grew  more  elaborate  than  ever;  his  remorse  for 
the  past,  his  resolutions  for  the  future,  his  protestations 
of  submission  to  the  will  of  God,  filled  page  after  page 
of  parallel  columns,  headings  and  sub-headings,  num- 


4^  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

bered  clauses,  and  analytical  tables.  "How  do  I  feel  about 
Death?"  he  wrote. 

Certainly  great  fear — 

1.  Because  of  the  uncertainty  of  our  state  before  God. 

2.  Because  of  the  consciousness — 

( 1 )  of  great  sins  past, 

(2)  of  great  sinfuhiess, 

(3)  of  most  shallow  repentance. 
What  shall  I  do? 

He  decided  to  mortify  himself,  to  read  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas,  and  to  make  his  "nightly  prayers  forty  instead 
of  thirty  minutes."  He  determined  during  Lent  "to 
use  no  pleasant  bread  (except  on  Sundays  and  feasts) 
such  as  cake  and  sweetmeat";  but  he  added  the  proviso 
"I  do  not  include  plain  biscuits."  Opposite  this  entry 
appears  the  word  "kept."  And  yet  his  backslidings  were 
many.  Looking  back  over  a  single  week,  he  was  obliged 
to  register  "petulance  twice"  and  "complacent  visions." 
He  heard  his  curate  being  commended  for  bringing  so 
many  souls  to  God  during  Lent,  and  he  "could  not  bear 
it";  but  the  remorse  was  terrible:  "I  abhorred  myself  on 
the  spot,  and  looked  upward  for  help."  He  made  out  list 
upon  list  of  the  Almighty's  special  mercies  towards  him, 
and  they  included  his  creation,  his  regeneration,  and 
(No.  5) 

:he  preservation  of  my  life  six  times  to  my  knowledge — 

( 1 )  In  illness  at  the  age  of  nine. 

(2)  In  the  water. 

(3)  By  a  runaway  horse  at  Oxford. 

(4)  By  the  same. 

( 5 )  By  falling  nearly  through  the  ceiling  of  a  church. 

(6)  Again  by  a  fall  off  a  horse.  And  I  know  not  how 

often  in  shooting,  riding,  etc. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  47 

At  last  he  became  convalescent;  but  the  spiritual  ex- 
periences of  those  agitated  weeks  left  an  indelible  mark 
upon  his  mind,  and  prepared  the  way  for  the  great 
change  which  was  to  follow. 

For  he  had  other  doubts  besides  those  which  held 
him  in  torment  as  to  his  own  salvation;  he  was  in  doubt 
about  the  whole  framework  of  his  faith.  Newman's  con- 
version, he  found,  had  meant  something  more  to  him 
than  he  had  at  first  realised.  It  had  seemed  to  come  as 
a  call  to  the  redoubling  of  his  Anglican  activities;  but 
supposing,  in  reality,  it  were  a  call  towards  something 
very  different — towards  an  abandonment  of  those  activi- 
ties altogether?  It  might  be  a  "trial,"  or  again  it  might  be 
a  "leading";  how  was  he  to  judge?  Already,  before  his 
illness,  these  doubts  had  begun  to  take  possession  of  his 
mind. 

I  am  conscious  to  myself   [he  wrote  in  his  Diary]   of  an  ex 
tensively  changed  feeling  towards  the  Church  of  Rome  .   .   . 
The  Church  of  England  seems  to  me  to  be  diseased: — 
I.   Organically    (six   sub-headings).      2.   Functionally    (seven 
sub-headings)    .   .   .  Wherever  it  seems  healthy  it  approximates 
the  system  of  Rome. 

Then  thoughts  of  the  Virgin  Mary  suddenly  began  to 
assail  him — 

( 1 )  If    John    the    Baptist    were    sanctified    from    the 

womb,  hov/  much  more  the  B.V.! 

(2)  If  Enoch  and  Elijah  were  exempted  from  death, 

why  not  the  B.V.  from  sin? 

(3)  It  is  a  strange  way  of  loving  the  Son  to  slight 

the  mother! 

The  arguments  seemed  irresistible,  and  a  few  weeks  later 
the  following  entry  occurs — 


48  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Strange  thoughts  have  visited  me: 

(i)  I  have  felt  that  the  Episcopate  of  the  Church  of 
England  is  secularised  and  bound  down  beyond 
hope.  .  .  . 

(6)  I  feel  as  if  a  light  had  fallen  upon  me.     My  feel- 

ing about  the  Roman  Church  is  not  intellectual. 
I  have  intellectual  difficulties,  but  the  "great 
moral  difficulties  seem  melting. 

(7)  Something  keeps  rising  and  saying,  "You  will  end 

in  the  Roman  Church." 

He  noted  altogether  twenty-five  of  these  "strange 
thoughts."  His  mind  hovered  anxiously  round — 

( 1 )  The  Incarnation, 

(2)  The  Real  Presence, 

i.   Regeneration, 
ii.  Eucharist, 
and  (3)   The  Exaltation  of  S.  M.  and  Saints. 

His  twenty-second  strange  thought  was  as  follows: — 
"How  do  I  know  where  I  may  be  two  years  hence? 
Where  was  Newman  five  years  ago?" 

It  was  significant,  but  hardly  surprising,  that,  after 
his  illness.  Manning  should  have  chosen  to  recuperate 
in  Rome.  He  spent  several  months  there,  and  his  Diary 
during  the  whole  of  that  period  is  concerned  entirely  with 
detailed  descriptions  of  churches,  ceremonies,  and  relics, 
and  with  minute  accounts  of  conversations  with  priests 
and  nuns.  There  is  not  a  single  reference  either  to  the 
objects  of  art  or  to  the  antiquities  of  the  place;  but  an- 
other omission  was  still  more  remarkable.  Manning  had 
a  long  interview  with  Pius  IX.,  and  his  only  record  of  it 
is  contained  in  the  bald  statement:  "Audience  to-day  at 
the  Vatican."   Precisely    what  passed   on   that   occasion 


CA.RDINAL     MANNING  49 

never  transpired;  all  that  is  known  is  that  Plis  Hohness 
expressed  considerable  surprise  on  learning  from  the 
Archdeacon  that  the  chalice  was  used  in  the  Anglican 
Church  in  the  administration  of  Communion.  "What!" 
he  exclaimed,  "is  the  same  chalice  made  use  of  by  every 
one?"  "I  remember  the  pain  I  felt,"  said  Manning,  long 
afterwards,  "at  seeing  how  unknown  we  were  to  the 
Vicar  of  Jesus  Christ.  It  made  me  feel  our  isolation." 

On  his  return  to  England,  he  took  up  once  more  the 
work  in  his  Archdeaconry  with  what  appetite  he  might. 
Ravaged  by  doubt,  distracted  by  speculation,  he  yet 
managed  to  maintain  an  outward  presence  of  unshaken 
calm.  His  only  confidant  was  Robert  Wilberforce,  to 
whom,  for  the  next  two  years,  he  poured  forth  in  a 
series  of  letters,  headed  ^'Under  the  Seal"  to  indicate 
that  they  contained  the  secrets  of  the  confessional,  the 
whole  history  of  his  spiritual  perturbations.  The  irony 
of  his  position  w^as  singular;  for  during  the  whole  of  this 
tinie  Manning  was  himself  holding  back  from  the  Church 
of  Rome  a  host  of  hesitating  penitents  by  means  of  argu- 
ments which  he  was  at  the  very  moment  denouncing  as 
fallacious  to  his  own  confessor.  But  what  else  could  he 
do?  When  he  received,  for  instance,  a  letter  such  as  the 
following  from  an  agitated  lady,  what  was  he  to  say? 

My  Dear  Father  in  Christ, 

...  I  am  svire  you  would  pity  me  and  like  to  help  me,  if  you 
knew  the  unhappy,  unsettled  state  my  mind  is  in,  and  the  mis- 
cry  of  being  entirely,  wherever  I  am,  with  those  who  look  upon 
joining  the  Church  of  Rome  as  the  most  awful  "fall"  con- 
ceivable to  any  one,  and  are  devoid  of  the  smallest  comprehen- 
sion of  how  any  enlightened  person  can  do  it.  .  .  .  My  old 
Evangelical  friends,  with  all  my  deep,  deep  love  for  them,  do 
not  succeed  in  shaking  me  in  the  least.  .  . . 


50  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

My  brother  has  just  pubHshed  a  book  called  Kegenerat'ion, 
which  all  my  friends  are  reading  and  highly  extolling;  it  has 
a  very  contrary  effect  to  what  he  would  desire  on  my  mind.  I 
can  read  and  understand  it  all  in  an  altogether  diflferent  sense, 
and  the  facts  which  he  quotes  about  the  articles  as  drawn  up  in 
1536,  and  again  in  1552,  and  of  the  Irish  articles  of  161 5  and 
1634,  startle  and  shake  me  about  the  Reformed  Church  in 
England  far  more  than  anything  else,  and  have  done  ever  since 
I  first  saw  them  in  Mr.  Maskell's  pamphlet  (as  quoted  from 
Mr.  Dods worth's). 

I  do  hope  you  have  sometimes  time  and  thought  to  pray  for 
me  still.  Mr.  Galton's  letters  long  ago  grew  into  short  formal 
notes,  which  hurt  me  and  annoyed  me  particularly,  and  I  never 
answered  his  last,  so,  literally,  I  have  no  one  to  say  things  to 
and  get  help  from,  which  in  one  sense  is  a  comfort,  when  my 
convictions  seem  to  be  leading  me  on  and  on  and  gaining 
strength  in  spite  of  all  the  dreariness  of  my  lot. 

Do  you  know  I  can't  help  being  very  anxious  and  unhappy 
about  poor  Sister  Harriet.  I  am  afraid  of  her  going  out  of  her 
mind.  She  comforts  herself  by  an  occasional  outpouring  of 
everything  to  me,  and  I  had  a  letter  this  morning.  .  .  .  She  says 
Sister  May  has  promised  the  Vicar  never  to  talk  to  her  or  allow 
her  to  talk  on  the  subject  with  her,  and  I  doubt  whether  this 
can  be  good  for  her,  because  though  she  has  lost  her  faith,  she 
says,  in  the  Church  of  England,  yet  she  never  thinks  of  what 
she  could  have  faith  in,  and  resolutely  without  enquiring  into 
the  question  determines  not  to  be  a  Roman  Catholic,  so  that 
really  you  see  she  is  allowing  her  mind  to  run  adrift,  and  yet 
perfectly  powerless. 

Forgive  my  troubling  you  with  this  letter,  and  believe  me 
to  be  always  your  faithful,  grateful  and  affectionate  daughter, 

Emma  Ryle. 

P.S. — I  wish  I  could  see  you  once  more  so  very  much. 

How  was  Manning,  a  director  of  souls,  and  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Church  of  England,  to  reply  that  in  sober 


CARDINAL     MANNING  5I 

truth  there  was  very  Httle  to  choose  between  the  state 
of  mind  of  Sister  Emma,  or  even  of  Sister  Harriet,  and 
his  own?  The  dilemma  was  a  grievous  one:  when  a 
5;oldier  finds  himself  fighting  for  a  cause  in  which  he 
has  lost  faith,  it  is  treachery  to  stop,  and  it  is  treachery 
to  go  on. 

At  last,  in  the  seclusion  of  his  library,  Manning  turned 
in  an  agony  to  those  old  writings  which  had  provided 
Newman  with  so  much  instruction  and  assistance;  per- 
haps the  Fathers  would  do  something  for  him  as  well. 
He  ransacked  the  pages  of  St.  Cyprian  and  St.  Cyril; 
he  went  through  the  complete  works  of  St.  Optatus  and 
St.  Leo;  he  explored  the  vast  treatises  of  Tertullian  and 
Justin  Martyr.  He  had  a  lamp  put  into  his  phaeton,  so 
that  he  might  lose  no  time  during  his  long  winter  drives. 
There  he  sat,  searching  St.  Chrysostom  for  some  mitiga- 
tion of  his  anguish,  while  he  sped  along  between  the 
hedges  to  distant  sufferers,  to  whom  he  duly  administered 
the  sacraments  according  to  the  rites  of  the  English 
Church.  He  hurried  back  to  commit  to  his  Diary  the 
analysis  of  his  reflections,  and  to  describe,  under  the 
mystic  formula  of  secrecy,  the  intricate  workings  of  his 
conscience  to  Robert  Wilberforce.  But,  alas!  he  was  no 
Newman;  and  even  the  fourteen  folios  of  St.  Augustine 
himself,  strange  to  say,  gave  him  very  little  help. 

The  final  propulsion  was  to  come  from  an  entirely 
different  quarter.  In  November,  1847,  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Gorham  was  presented  by  the  Lord  Chancellor  to  the 
living  of  Bramford  Speke  in  the  diocese  of  Exeter.  The 
Bishop,  Dr.  Phillpotts,  was  a  High  Churchman,  and  he 
.'^ad  reason  to  believe  that  Mr.  Gorham  held  Evangelical 
opinions;  he  therefore  subjected  him  to  an  examination 
on  doctrine,  which  took  the  form  partly  of  a  verbal  in- 


52  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

terrogatory,  lasting  thirty-eight  hours,  and  partly  of  a 
series  of  one  hundred  and  forty-nine  written  questions^ 
At  the  end  of  the  examination  he  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  Mr.  Gorham  held  heretical  views  on  the  subject  of; 
Baptismal  Regeneration,  and  he  therefore  refused  to  in-^ 
stitute.  Mr.  Gorham  thereupon  took  proceedings  against' 
the  Bishop  in  the  Court  of  Arches.  He  lost  his  case;  and 
he  then  appealed  to  the  Judicial  Committee  of  the  Privy 
Council. 

The  questions  at  issue  were  taken  very  seriously  by 
a  large  number  of  persons.  In  the  first  place,  there  was 
the  question  of  Baptismal  Regeneration  itself.  This  is 
by  no  means  an  easy  one  to  disentangle;  but  it  may  be 
noted  that  the  doctrine  of  Baptism  includes  (i)  God's 
intention,  that  is  to  say.  His  purpose  in  electing  certain 
persons  to  eternal  life — an  abstruse  and  greatly  contro- 
verted subject,  upon  which  the  Church  of  England  ab- 
stains from  strict  definition;  (2)  God's  action,  whether 
by  means  of  sacraments  or  otherwise — concerning  which 
the  Church  of  England  maintains  the  efficacy  of  sacra- 
m.ents,  but  does  not  formally  deny  that  grace  may  be 
given  by  other  means,  repentance  and  faith  being  present; 
and  ( 3 )  the  question  whether  sacramental  grace  is  given 
instrumentally,  by  and  at  the  moment  of  the  act  of 
baptism,  or  in  consequence  of  an  act  of  prevenient  grace 
rendering  the  receiver  worthy — that  is  to  say,  whether 
sacramental  grace  in  baptism  is  given  absolutely  or  con- 
ditionally: it  was  over  this  last  question  that  the  dispute 
raged  hottest  in  the  Gorham  Case.  The  High  Church 
party,  represented  by  Dr.  Phillpotts,  asserted  that  the 
mere  act  of  baptism  conferred  regeneration  upon  the 
recipient  and  washed  av/ay  his  original  sin.  To  this  the 
Evangelicals,  headed  by  Mr.  Gorham,  replied  that,  ac- 


CARDINAL     MANNING  53 

cording  to  the  Articles,  regeneration  would  not  follow 
unless  baptism  was  rightly  received.  What,   then,  was 
the  meaning  of  "rightly"?  Clearly  it  implied  not  merely 
lawful  administration,  but  worthy  reception;  worthiness, 
therefore,  is  the  essence  of  the  sacrament;  and  worthi- 
ness  means  faith   and   repentance.   Now,    two  proposi- 
tions were  accepted  by  both  parties — that  all  infants  are 
born  in  original  sin,  and  that  original  sin  is  washed  away 
by  baptism.  But  how  could  both  these  propositions  be 
true,  argued  Mr.  Gorham,  if  it  was  also  true  that  faith 
and   repentance  were   necessary    before    baptism    could 
come  into  operation  at  all?    How  could  an   infant  in 
arms  be  said  to  be  in  a  state  of  faith  and  repentance? 
How,  therefore,  could  its  original  sin  be  washed  away 
by  baptism?  And  yet,  as  everyone  agreed,  washed  away 
it  was.  The  only  solution  of  the  difficulty  lay  in  the  doc- 
trine of  prevenient  grace;  and  Mr.  Gorham  maintained 
that  unless  God  performed  an  act  of  prevenient  grace 
by  which  the  infant  was  endowed  with  faith  and  re- 
pentance, no  act  of  baptism  could  be  effectual;  though 
to  whom,  and  under  what  conditions,  prevenient  grace 
was    given,   Mr.    Gorham   confessed    himself   unable    to 
decide.  The  light  thrown  by  the  Bible  upon  the  whole 
matter  seemed  somewhat  dubious,  for  whereas  the  bap- 
tism of  St.  Peter's  disciples  at  Jerusalem  and  St.  Philip's 
at  Samaria  was  followed  by  the  gift  of  the  Spirit,  in  the 
case  of  Cornelius  the  sacrament  succeeded  the  gift.  St. 
Paul  also  was  baptised;  and  as  for  the  language  of  St. 
John  iii.  5;  Rom.  vi.  3,  4;  I  Peter  iii.  21,  it  admits  of 
more  than  one  interpretation.  There  could,  however,  be 
no  doubt  that  the  Church  of  England  assented  to  Dr. 
Phillpotts'  opinion;  the  question  was  whether  or  not  she 
excluded  Mr.  Gorham's.  If  it  was  decided  that  she  did, 


54  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

it  was  clear  that  henceforward  there  would  be  very  little 
peace  for  Evangelicals  within  her  fold. 

But  there  was  another  issue,  even  more  fundamental 
than  that  of  Baptismal  Regeneration  itself,  involved  in 
the  Gorham  trial.  An  Act  passed  in  1833  had  constituted 
the  Judicial  Committee  of  the  Privy  Council  the  supreme 
court  of  appeal  for  such  cases ;  and  this  Committee  was  a 
body  composed  entirely  of  laymen.  It  was  thus  obvious 
that  the  Royal  Supremacy  was  still  a  fact,  and  that  a 
collection  of  lawyers  appointed  by  the  Crown  had  the 
legal  right  to  formulate  the  religious  doctrine  of  the 
Church  of  England.  In  1850  their  judgment  was  de- 
livered; they  reversed  the  decision  of  the  Court  of  Arches, 
and  upheld  the  position  of  Mr.  Gorham.  "WTiether  his 
views  were  theologically  correct  or  not,  they  said,  was 
not  their  business;  it  was  their  business  to  decide  whether 
the  opinions  under  consideration  were  contrary  or  re- 
pugnant to  the  doctrine  of  the  Church  of  England  as  en- 
joined upon  the  clergy  by  its  Articles,  Formularies,  and 
Rubrics;  and  they  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they 
were  not.  The  judgment  still  holds  good ;  and  to  this  day 
a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  is  quite  at  liberty 
to  believe  that  Regeneration  does  not  invariably  take 
place  when  an  Infant  is  baptised. 

The  blow  fell  upon  no  one  with  greater  violence  than 
upon  Manning.  Not  only  was  the  supreme  efficacy  of  the 
sign  of  the  cross  upon  a  baby's  forehead  one  of  his 
favourite  doctrines,  but  up  to  that  moment  he  had  been 
convinced  that  the  Royal  Supremacy  was  a  mere  acci- 
dent— a  temporary  usurpation — which  left  the  spiritual 
dominion  of  the  Church  essentially  untouched.  But  now 
the  horrid  reality  rose   up   before  him.   crowned  and 


CARDINAL     MANNING  Jj 

triumphant;  it  was  all  too  clear  that  an  Act  of  Parliament, 
passed  by  Jews,  Roman  Catholics,  and  dissenters,  was 
the  ultimate  authority  which  decided  upon  the  mo- 
mentous niceties  of  the  Anglican  faith.  Mr.  Gladstone, 
also,  was  deeply  perturbed.  It  was  absolutely  necessary, 
he  wrote,  to  "rescue  and  defend  the  conscience  of  the 
Church  from  the  present  hideous  system."  An  agitation 
was  set  on  foot,  and  several  influential  Anglicans,  with 
Manning  at  their  head,  drew  up  and  signed  a  formal 
protest  against  the  Gorham  Judgment.  Mr.  Gladstone, 
however,  proposed  another  method  of  procedure:  pre- 
cipitate action,  he  declared,  must  be  avoided  at  all  costs, 
and  he  elaborated  a  scheme  for  securing  procrastination, 
by  which  a  covenant  was  to  bind  all  those  who  believed 
that  an  article  of  the  creed  had  been  abolished  by  Act 
of  Parliament  to  take  no  steps  in  any  direction,  nor  to 
announce  their  intention  of  doing  so,  until  a  given  space 
of  time  had  elapsed.  Mr.  Gladstone  was  hopeful  that  some 
good  might  come  of  this — though  indeed  he  could  not 
be  sure.  "Among  others,"  he  wrote  to  Manning,  "I 
have  consulted  Robert  Wilberforce  and  Wegg-Prosser, 
and  they  seemed  inclined  to  favour  my  proposal.  It  might, 
perhaps,  have  kept  back  Lord  Fielding.  But  he  is  like  a 
cork." 

The  proposal  was  certainly  not  favoured  by  Manning. 
Protests  and  procrastinations,  approving  Wegg-Prossers 
and  cork-like  Lord  Fieldings — all  this  was  feeding  the 
wind  and  folly;  the  time  for  action  had  come. 

I  can  no  longer  continue  [he  wrote  to  Robert  Wilberforce] 
under  oath  and  subscription  binding  me  to  the  Royal  Suprem- 
acy in  Ecclesiastical  causes,  being  convinced: — 

(i)   That  it  is  a  violation  of  the  Divine  Office  of  tht 
Church. 


y6  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

(2)  That  it  has  involved  the  Church  of  England  in  a 

separation  from  the  universal  Church,  which  sepa- 
ration I  cannot  clear  of  the  character  of  schism. 

(3)  That  it    has   thereby  suspended   and  prevented  the 

functions  of  the  Church  of  England- 
It  was  in  vain  that  Robert  Wilberforce  pleaded,  in  vain 
that  Mr.  Gladstone  urged  upon  his  mind  the  significance 
of  John  iii.  8.^ 

I  admit  [Mr.  Gladstone  wrote]  that  the  words  might  in  some 
way  be  satisfied  by  supposing  our  Lord  simply  to  mean  "the  facts 
of  nature  are  unintelligible,  therefore  be  not  afraid  if  revealed 
truths  be  likewise  beyond  the  compass  of  the  understanding"; 
but  this  seems  to  me  a  meagre  meaning. 

Such  considerations  could  hold  him  no  longer,  and  Man- 
ning executed  the  resignation  of  his  office  and  benefice 
before  a  public  notary.  Soon  afterwards,  in  the  little 
chapel  off  Buckingham  Palace  Road,  kneeling  beside  Mr. 
Gladstone,  he  worshipped  for  the  last  time  as  an  Anglican. 
Thirty  years  later  the  Cardinal  told  how,  just  before  the 
Communion  service  commenced,  he  turned  to  his  friend 
with  the  words: 

I  can  no  longer  take  the  Communion  in  the  Church  of  England. 
I  rose  up  and,  laying  my  hand  on  Mr.  Gladstone's  shoulder,  said 
"Come."  It  was  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Mr.  Gladstone  re- 
mained; and  I  went  my  way.  Mr.  Gladstone  still  remains  where 
I  left  him. 

On  April  6,  18 51,  the  final  step  was  taken:  Manning 
was  received  into  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  Now  at 
last,  after  the  long  struggle,  his  mind  was  at  rest. 

1  "The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and  thou  hearest  the  sound 
thereof,  but  canst  not  tell  whence  it  cometh,  and  whither  it  goeth:  so 
is  every  one  that  is  born  of  the  Spirit." 


CARDINAL     MANNING  57 

I  know  what  you  mean  [he  wrote  to  Robert  Wilberforce]  by 
saying  that  one  sometimes  feels  as  if  all  this  might  turn  out 
to  be  only  another  "Land  of  Shadows."  I  have  felt  it  in  time 
past,  but  not  now.  The  Oeoloyla  from  Nice  to  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas,  and  the  undivided  unity  suffused  throughout  the 
world,  of  which  the  Cathedra  Petri  is  the  centre, — now  1800 
years  old,  mightier  in  every  power  now  than  ever,  in  intellect, 
in  science,  in  separation  from  the  world;  and  purer  too,  rchncd 
by  300  years  of  conflict  with  the  modern  infidel  civilisation — 
all  this  is  a  fact  more  solid  than  the  earth. 


When  Manning  joined  the  Church  of  Rome  he  acted 
under  the  combined  impulse  of  the  two  dominating 
forces  in  his  nature.  His  preoccupation  with  the  super- 
natural might,  alone,  have  been  satisfied  within  the  fold 
of  the  Anglican  communion;  and  so  might  his  pre- 
occupation with  himself:  the  one  might  have  found  vent 
in  the  elaborations  of  High  Church  ritual,  and  the  other 
in  the  activities  of  a  bishopric.  But  the  two  together  could 
not  be  quieted  so  easily.  The  Church  of  England  is  a 
commodious  institution;  she  is  very  anxious  to  please; 
but,  somehow  or  other,  she  has  never  managed  to  supply 
a  happy  home  to  superstitious  egotists.  "What  an  escape 
for  my  poor  soul!"  Manning  is  said  to  have  exclaimed 
when,  shortly  after  his  conversion,  a  mitre  was  going 
a-begging.  But,  in  truth.  Manning's  "poor  soul"  had 
scented  nobler  quarry.  To  one  of  his  temperament,  how 
was  it  possible,  when  once  the  choice  was  plainly  put,  to 
hesitate  for  a  moment  between  the  respectable  dignity  of 
an  English  bishop,  harnessed  by  the  secular  power,  with 
the  Gorham  judgment  as  a  bit  between  his  teeth,  and  the 
illimitable  pretensions  of  the  humblest  priest  of  Rome? 
For  the  moment,  however,  it  seemed  as  if  the  Fates  had 
at  last  been  successful  in  their  little  game  of  shunting 
Manning.  The  splendid  career  which  he  had  so  laboriously 
built  up  from  the  small  beginnings  of  his  Sussex  curacy 
was  shattered — and  shattered  by  the  inevitable  operation 
of  his  own  essential  needs.  He  was  over  forty,  and  he 

S8 


CARDINAL     MANNING  59 

had  been  put  back  once  more  to  the  very  bottom  rung  of 
the  ladder — a  middle-aged  neophyte  with,  so  far  as  could 
be  seen,  no  special  claim  to  the  attention  of  his  new 
superiors.  The  example  of  Newman,  a  far  more  ifPustrious 
convert,  was  hardly  reassuring:  he  had  been  relegated  to 
a  complete  obscurity,  in  which  he  was  to  remain  until 
extreme  old  age.  "Why  should  there  be  anything  better  in 
store  for  Manning?  Yet  it  so  happened  that  within  four- 
teen years  of  his  conversion  Manning  was  Archbishop  of 
Westminster  and  the  supreme  ruler  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  community  in  England.  This  time  the  Fates 
gave  up  their  unequal  struggle;  they  paid  over  their 
stakes  in  despair,  and  retired  from  the  game. 

Nevertheless  it  is  difficult  to  feel  quite  sure  that  Man- 
ning's plunge  was  as  hazardous  as  it  appeared.  Certainly 
he  was  not  a  man  who  was  likely  to  forget  to  look  before 
he  leaped,  nor  one  who,  if  he  happened  to  know  that  there 
was  a  mattress  spread  to  receive  him,  would  leap  with 
less  conviction.  In  the  light  of  after-events,  one  would  be 
glad  to  know  what  precisely  passed  at  that  mysterious 
interview  of  his  with  the  Pope,  three  years  before  his 
conversion.  It  is  at  least  possible  that  the  authorities  in 
Rome  had  their  eye  on  Manning;  they  may  well  have  felt 
that  the  Archdeacon  of  Chichester  would  be  a  great 
catch.  What  did  Pio  Nono  say?  It  is  easy  to  imagine  the 
persuasive  innocence  of  his  Italian  voice.  "Ah,  dear  Signer 
Manning,  why  don't  you  come  over  to  us?  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  we  should  not  look  after  you?" 

At  any  rate,  when  he  did  go  over.  Manning  was  looked 
after  very  thoroughly.  There  was,  it  is  true,  a  momentary 
embarrassment  at  the  outset:  it  was  only  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  that  he  could  bring  himself  to  abandon  his  faith 
in  the  validity  of  Anglican  Orders,  in  which  he  believed 


6o  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

"with  a  consciousness  stronger  than  all  reasoning."  He 
was  convinced  that  he  was  still  a  priest.  When  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Tierney,  who  had  received  him  into  the  Roman 
Catholic  communion,  assured  him  that  this  was  not  the 
case,  he  was  filled  with  dismay  and  mortification.  After 
a  five  hours'  discussion,  he  started  to  his  feet  in  a  rage. 
"Then,  Mr.  Tierney,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  think  me  in- 
sincere." The  bitter  draught  was  swallowed  at  last,  and, 
after  that,  all  went  smoothly.  Manning  hastened  to  Rome, 
and  was  immediately  placed  by  the  Pope  in  the  highly 
select  Accademia  Ecclesiastica,  commonly  known  as  the 
"nursery  of  Cardinals,"  for  the  purpose  of  completing 
his  theological  studies.  When  the  course  was  finished, 
he  continued,  by  the  Pope's  special  request,  to  spend  six 
months  of  every  year  in  Rome,  where  he  preached  to 
the  English  visitors,  became  acquainted  with  the  great 
personages  of  the  Papal  court,  and  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  constant  interviews  with  the  Holy  Father.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  able  to  make  himself  useful  in  London, 
where  Cardinal  Wiseman,  the  newly-created  Archbishop 
of  Westminster,  was  seeking  to  reanimate  the  Roman 
Catholic  community.  Manning  was  not  only  extremely 
popular  in  the  pulpit  and  in  the  confessional;  he  was  not 
only  highly  efficient  as  a  gleaner  of  souls — and  of  souls 
who  moved  iA  the  best  society;  he  also  possessed  a  familiar- 
ity with  official  persons  and  official  ways,  which  was  in- 
valuable. When  the  question  arose  of  the  appointment  of 
Catholic  chaplains  in  the  Crimea  during  the  war,  it  was 
Manning  who  approached  the  Minister,  interviewed  the 
Permanent  Secretary,  and  finally  succeeded  in  obtaining 
all  that  was  required.  When  a  special  Reformatory  for 
Catholic  children  was  proposed.  Manning  carried  through 
the  negotiations  with  the  Government.  When  an  attempt 


CARDINAL     MANNING  6l 

was  made  to  remove  Catholic  children  from  the  Work- 
houses, Manning  was-  again  indispensable.  No  wonder 
Cardinal  Wiseman  soon  determined  to  find  some  occupa- 
tion of  special  importance  for  the  energetic  convert.  He 
had  long  wished  to  establish  a  congregation  of  secular 
priests  in  London  particularly  devoted  to  his  service,  and 
the  opportunity  for  the  experiment  had  clearly  now 
arisen.  The  order  of  the  Oblates  of  St.  Charles  was 
founded  in  Bayswater,  and  Manning  was  put  at  its  head. 
Unfortunately  no  portion  of  the  body  of  St.  Charles 
could  be  obtained  for  the  new  community,  but  two 
relics  of  his  blood  were  brought  over  to  Bayswater  from 
Milan.  Almost  at  the  same  time  the  Pope  signified  his 
appreciation  of  Manning's  efforts  by  appointing  him 
Provost  of  the  Chapter  of  Westminster — a  position  which 
placed  him  at  the  head  of  the  Canons  of  the  diocese. 

This  double  promotion  was  the  signal  for  the  outbreak 
of  an  extraordinary  intestine  struggle,  which  raged  with- 
out intermission  for  the  next  seven  years,  and  was  only 
to  end  with  the  accession  of  Manning  to  the  Arch- 
bishopric. The  condition  of  the  Roman  Catholic  com- 
munity in  England  was  at  that  time  a  singular  one.  On 
the  one  hand  the  old  repressive  laws  of  the  seventeenth 
century  had  been  repealed  by  liberal  legislation,  and  on 
the  other  a  large  new  body  of  distinguished  converts  had 
entered  the  Roman  Church  as  a  result  of  the  Oxford 
Movement.  It  was  evident  that  there  was  a  "boom"  in 
English  Catholicism,  and,  in  1850,  Pius  IX.  recognised 
the  fact  by  dividing  up  the  whole  of  England  into 
dioceses,  and  placing  Wiseman  at  the  head  of  them  as 
Archbishop  of  Westminster.  Wiseman's  encyclical,  dated 
"from  without  the  Flaminian  Gate,"  in  which  he  an- 
nounced the  new  departure,  was  greeted  in  England  by  a 


6l  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Storm  of  indignation,  culminating  in  the  famous  and 
furibund  letter  of  Lord  John  Russell,  then  Prime 
Minister,  against  the  insolence  of  the  "Papal  Aggression." 
Though  the  particular  point  against  which  the  outcry 
was  raised — the  English  territorial  titles  of  the  new 
Roman  bishops — was  an  insignificant  one,  the  instinct  of 
Lord  John  and  of  the  English  people  was  in  reality  sound 
enough.  Wiseman's  installation  did  mean,  in  fact,  a  new 
move  in  the  Papal  game;  it  meant  an  advance,  if  not  an 
aggression — a  quickening  in  England  of  the  long  dor- 
mant energies  of  the  Roman  Church.  That  Church  has 
never  had  the  reputation  of  being  an  institution  to  be 
trifled  with;  and,  in  those  days,  the  Pope  was  still  ruling 
as  a  temporal  Prince  over  the  fairest  provinces  of  Italy. 
Surely,  if  the  images  of  Guy  Fawkes  had  not  been 
garnished,  on  that  fifth  of  November,  with  triple  crowns, 
it  would  have  been  a  very  poor  compliment  to  His 
Holiness. 

But  it  was  not  only  the  honest  Protestants  of  England 
who  had  cause  to  dread  the  arrival  of  the  new  Cardinal 
Archbishop;  there  was  a  party  among  the  Catholics  them- 
selves who  viewed  his  installation  with  alarm  and  disgust. 
The  families  in  which  the  Catholic  tradition  had  been 
handed  down  uninterruptedly  since  the  days  of  Elizabeth, 
which  had  known  the  pains  of  exile  and  of  martyrdom, 
and  which  clung  together,  an  alien  and  isolated  group  in 
the  midst  of  English  society,  now  began  to  feel  that  they 
were,  after  all,  of  small  moment  in  the  counsels  of  Rome. 
They  had  laboured  through  the  heat  of  the  day,  but  now 
it  seemed  as  if  the  harvest  was  to  be  gathered  in  by  a 
crowd  of  converts,  who  were  proclaiming  on  every  side 
as  something  new  and  wonderful  the  truths  which  the 
Old  Catholics,  as  they  came  to  be  called,  had  not  only 


CARDINAL     MANNING  6} 

known,  but  for  which  they  had  suffered,  for  generations. 
Cardinal  Wiseman,  it  is  true,  was  no  convert;  he  belonged 
to  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  Catholic  families;  but  he  had 
spent  most  of  his  life  in  Rome,  he  was  out  of  touch  with 
English  traditions,  and  his  sympathy  with  Newman  and 
his  followers  was  only  too  apparent.  One  of  his  first  acts 
as  Archbishop  was  to  appoint  the  convert  W.  G.  Ward, 
who  was  not  even  in  holy  orders,  to  be  Professor  of 
Theology  at  St.  Edmund's  College — the  chief  seminary 
for  young  priests,  in  which  the  ancient  traditions  of 
Douay  were  still  flourishing.  Ward  was  an  ardent  Papalist, 
and  his  appointment  indicated  clearly  enough  that  In 
Wiseman's  opinion  there  was  too  little  of  the  Italian 
spirit  in  the  English  community.  The  uneasiness  of  the 
Old  Catholics  was  becoming  intense,  when  they  were  re- 
assured by  Wiseman's  appointing  as  his  coadjutor  and 
successor  his  intimate  friend.  Dr.  Errington,  who  was 
created  on  the  occasion  Archbishop  of  Trebizond  in 
partibjis  infidelmm.  Not  only  was  Dr.  Errington  an  Old 
Catholic  of  the  most  rigid  type,  he  was  a  man  of  extreme 
energy,  whose  influence  was  certain  to  be  great;  and,  in 
any  case,  Wiseman  was  growing  old,  so  that  before  very 
long  it  seemed  inevitable  that  the  policy  of  the  diocese 
would  be  in  proper  hands.  Such  was  the  position  of  affairs 
when,  two  years  after  Errington's  appointment,  Manning 
became  head  of  the  Oblates  of  St.  Charles  and  Provost  of 
the  Chapter  of  Westminster. 

The  Archbishop  of  Trebizond  had  been  for  some  time 
growing  more  and  more  suspicious  of  Manning's  influ- 
ence, and  this  sudden  elevation  appeared  to  justify  his 
worst  fears.  But  his  alarm  was  turned  to  fury  when  he 
learnt  that  St.  Edmund's  College,  from  which  he  had 
just  succeeded  in  removing  the  obnoxious  W.  G.  Ward. 


^4  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

was  to  be  placed  under  the  control  of  the  Oblates  of  St. 
Charles.  The  Oblates  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact 
that  one  of  their  principal  aims  was  to  introduce  the 
customs  of  a  Roman  Seminary  into  England.  A  grim 
perspective  of  espionage  and  tale-bearing,  foreign  habits 
and  Italian  devotions,  opened  out  before  the  dismayed 
eyes  of  the  Old  Catholics;  they  determined  to  resist  to 
the  utmost;  and  it  was  upon  the  question  of  the  control 
of  St.  Edmund's  that  the  first  battle  in  the  long  cam- 
paign between  Errington  and  Manning  was  fought. 

Cardinal  Wiseman  was  now  obviously  declining 
towards  the  grave.  A  man  of  vast  physique — "yo^^^  im- 
mense," an  Irish  servant  used  respectfully  to  call  him — a 
sanguine  temperament,  of  genial  disposition,  of  versatile 
capacity,  he  seemed  to  have  engrafted  upon  the  robustness 
of  his  English  nature  the  facile,  child-like,  and  expansive 
qualities  of  the  South.  So  far  from  being  a  Bishop  Blou- 
gram  (as  the  rumour  went)  he  was,  in  fact,  the  very  an- 
tithesis of  that  subtle  and  worldly-wise  ecclesiastic.  He  had 
innocently  looked  forward  all  his  life  to  the  reunion  of 
England  to  the  See  of  Peter,  and  eventually  had  come  to 
believe  that,  in  God's  hand,  he  was  the  instrument  destined 
to  bring  about  this  miraculous  consummation.  Was  not 
the  Oxford  Movement,  with  its  flood  of  converts,  a  clear 
sign  of  the  Divine  will?  Had  he  not  himself  been  the 
author  of  that  momentous  article  on  St.  Augustine  and 
the  Donatists,  which  had  finally  convinced  Newman 
that  the  Church  of  England  was  in  schism?  And  then  had 
he  not  been  able  to  set  on  foot  a  Crusade  of  Prayer 
throughout  Catholic  Europe  for  the  conversion  of  Eng- 
land? He  awaited  the  result  with  eager  expectation,  and 
in  the  meantime  he  set  himself  to  smooth  away  the  hostil- 
ity of  his  countrymen  by  delivering  courses  of  popular 


CARDINAL     MANNING  65 

lectures  on  literature  and  archaeology.  He  devoted  much 
time  and  attention  to  the  ceremonial  details  of  his  princely 
office.  His  knowledge  of  rubric  and  ritual  and  of  the  sym- 
bolical   significations    of    vestments    has     rarely    been 
equalled,  and  he  took  a  profound  delight  in  the  ordering 
and  the  performance  of  elaborate  processions.  During 
one  of  these  functions  an  unexpected  difficulty  arose: 
the  Master  of  the  Ceremonies  suddenly  gave  the  word  for 
a  halt,  and,  on  being  asked  the  reason,  replied  that  he 
had  been  instructed  that  moment  by  special  revelation 
to  stop  the  procession.  The  Cardinal,  however,  was  not 
at  a  loss.  "You  may  let  the  procession  go  on,"  he  smilingly 
replied.   "I  have   just   obtained    permission,    by   special 
revelation,  to  proceed  with  it."  His  leisure  hours  he  spent 
in  the  writing  of  edifying  novels,  the  composition  of 
acrostics  in  Latin  Verse,  and  in  playing  battledore  and 
shuttlecock  with  his  little  nieces.  There  was,  indeed,  only 
one  point  in  which  he  resembled  Bishop  Blougram — hii- 
love  of  a  good  table.  Some  of  Newman's  disciples  were 
astonished  and  grieved  to  find  that  he  sat  down  to  four 
courses  of  fish  during  Lent.  "I  am  sorry  to  say,"  remarked 
one  of  them  afterwards,  "that  there  is  a  lobster  salad  side 
to  the  Cardinal." 

It  was  a  melancholy  fate  which  ordained  that  the  last 
years  of  this  comfortable,  easy-going,  innocent  old  man 
should  be  distracted  and  embittered  by  the  fury  of  op- 
posing principles  and  the  venom  of  personal  animosities. 
But  so  it  was.  He  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  one  who 
cared  very  little  for  the  gentle  pleasures  of  repose.  Left 
to  himself,  Wiseman  might  have  compromised  with  the 
Old  Catholics  and  Dr.  Errington;  but  when  Manning 
had  once  appeared  upon  the  scene  all  compromise  became 
impossible.  The  late  Archdeacon  of  Chichester,  who  had 


66  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

understood  so  well  and  practised  with  such  careful  skill 
the  precept  of  the  golden  mean  so  dear  to  the  heart  of 
the  Church  of  England,  now,  as  Provost  of  Westminster, 
flung  himself  into  the  fray  with  that  unyielding  intensity 
of  fervour,  that  passion  for  the  extreme  and  the  absolute, 
which  is  the  very  life-blood  of  the  Church  of  Rome.  Even 
the  redoubtable  Dr.  Errington,  short,  thickset,  deter- 
mined, with  his  "hawk-like  expression  of  face,"  as  a 
contemporary  described  him,  "as  he  looked  at  you 
through  his  blue  spectacles,"  had  been  known  to  quail  in 
the  presence  of  his  antagonist,  with  his  tall  and  graceful 
figure,  his  pale  ascetic  features,  his  compressed  and  icy 
lips,  his  calm  and  penetrating  gaze.  As  for  the  poor 
Cardinal,  he  was  helpless  indeed.  Henceforward  there 
was  to  be  no  paltering  with  that  dangerous  spirit  of  in- 
dependence— was  it  not  almost  Gallicanism? — which  pos- 
sessed the  Old  Catholic  families  of  England.  The  suprem- 
acy of  the  Vicar  of  Christ  must  be  maintained  at  all 
hazards.  Compared  with  such  an  object,  what  were  the 
claims  of  personal  affection  and  domestic  peace?  The 
Cardinal  pleaded  in  vain;  his  life-long  friendship  with 
Dr.  Errington  was  plucked  up  by  the  roots,  and  the 
harmony  of  his  private  life  was  utterly  destroyed.  His 
own  household  was  turned  against  him.  His  favourite 
nephew,  whom  he  had  placed  among  the  Oblates  under 
Manning's  special  care,  left  the  congregation  and  openly 
joined  the  party  of  Dr.  Errington.  His  secretary  followed 
suit;  but  saddest  of  all  was  the  case  of  Monsignor  Searle. 
Monsignor  Searle,  in  the  capacity  of  confidential  man  of 
affairs,  had  dominated  over  the  Cardinal  in  private  for 
years  with  the  autocratic  fidelity  of  a  servant  who  has 
grown  indispensable.  His  devotion,  in  fact,  seemed  to 
have  taken  the  form  of  physical  imitation,  for  he  was 


CARDINAL     MANNING  6  J 

hardly  less  gigantic  than  his  master.  The  two  were  in- 
separable; their  huge  figures  loomed  together  like  neigh- 
bouring mountains;  and  on  one  occasion,  meeting  them 
in  the  street,  a  gentleman  c&ngratulated  Wiseman  on 
"your  Eminence's  fine  son."  Yet  now  even  this  com- 
panionship was  broken  up.  The  relentless  Provost  here 
too  brought  a  sword.  There  were  explosions  and  recrimi- 
nations. Monsignor  Searle,  finding  that  his  power  was 
slipping  from  him,  made  scenes  and  protests,  and  at  last 
was  foolish  enough  to  accuse  Manning  of  peculation  to 
his  face;  after  that  it  was  clear  that  his  day  was  over; 
he  was  forced  to  slink  snarling  into  the  background, 
while  the  Cardinal  shuddered  through  all  his  immensity 
and  wished  many  times  that  he  were  already  dead. 

Yet  he  was  not  altogether  without  his  consolations; 
Manning  took  care  to  see  to  that.  His  piercing  eye  had 
detected  the  secret  way  into  the  recesses  of  the  Cardi- 
nal's heart — had  discerned  the  core  of  simple  faith  which 
underlay  that  jovial  manner  and  that  facile  talk.  Others 
were  content  to  laugh  and  chatter  and  transact  their  busi- 
ness; Manning  was  more  artistic.  He  watched  his  oppor- 
tunity, and  then,  when  the  moment  came,  touched  with 
a  deft  finger  the  chord  of  the  Conversion  of  England. 
There  was  an  immediate  response,  and  he  struck  the  same 
chord  again,  and  yet  again.  He  became  the  repository  of 
the  Cardinal's  most  intimate  aspirations.  He  alone  sym- 
pathised and  understood.  "If  God  gives  me  strength  to 
undertake  a  great  wrestling-match  with  infidelity," 
Wiseman  wrote,  "I  shall  owe  it  to  him." 

But  what  he  really  found  himself  undertaking  was 
a  wrestling-match  with  Dr.  Errington.  The  struggle 
over  St.  Edmund's  College  grew  more  and  more  acute. 
There  were  high  words  in  the  Chapter,  where  Monsignor 


68  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Searle  led  the  assault  against  the  Provost,  and  carried  a 
resolution  declaring  that  the  Oblates  of  St.  Charles  had 
intruded  themselves  illegally  into  the  Seminary.  The 
Cardinal  quashed  the  proceedings  of  the  Chapter;  where- 
ttpon  the  Chapter  appealed  to  Rome.  Dr.  Errington,  car- 
ried away  by  the  fury  of  the  controversy,  then  appeared 
as  the  avowed  opponent  of  the  Provost  and  the  Cardinal. 
With  his  own  hand  he  drew  up  a  document  justifying  the 
appeal  of  the  Chapter  to  Rome  by  Canon  Law  and  the 
decrees  of  the  Council  of  Trent.  Wiseman  was  deeply 
pained.  "My  own  coadjutor,"  he  exclaimed,  "is  acting 
as  solicitor  against  me  in  a  law-suit."  There  was  a  rush 
to  Rome,  where,  for  several  ensuing  years,  the  hostile  Eng- 
lish parties  were  to  wage  a  furious  battle  in  the  ante- 
chambers of  the  Vatican.  But  the  dispute  over  the  Oblates 
now  sank  into  insignificance  beside  the  rage  of  contention 
which  centred  round  a  new  and  far  more  deadly  question; 
for  the  position  of  Dr.  Errington  himself  was  at  stake. 
The  Cardinal,  in  spite  of  illness,  indolence,  and  the  ties  of 
friendship,  had  been  brought  at  last  to  an  extraordinary 
step:  he  was  petitioning  the  Pope  for  nothing  less  than 
the  deprivation  and  removal  of  the  Archbishop  of  Tre- 
bizond. 

The  precise  details  of  what  followed  are  doubtful. 
It  is  only  possible  to  discern  with  clearness,  amid  a  vast 
cloud  of  official  documents  and  unofficial  correspondences 
in  English,  Italian,  and  Latin,  of  Papal  decrees  and 
voluminous  scrithire,  of  confidential  reports  of  episcopal 
whispers  and  the  secret  agitations  of  Cardinals,  the  form 
of  Manning,  restless  and  indomitable,  scouring  like  a 
stormy  petrel  the  angry  ocean  of  debate.  "Wiseman,  dila- 
tory, unbusinesslike,  and  infirm,  was  ready  enough  to 
leave  the  conduct  of  affairs  in  his  hands.  Nor  was  it  long 


CARDINAL     MANNING  69 

before  Manning  saw  where  the  key  of  the  whole  position 
lay.  As  in  the  old  days,  at  Chichester,  he  had  secured  the 
good  will  of  Bishop  Shuttleworth  by  cultivating  the 
friendship  of  Archdeacon  Hare,  so  now,  on  this  vaster 
scale  of  operations,  his  sagacity  led  him  swiftly  and  un- 
erringly up  the  little  winding  staircase  in  the  Vatican 
and  through  the  humble  door  which  opened  into  the 
Cabinet  of  Monsignor  Talbot,  the  private  secretary  of 
the  Pope.  Monsignor  Talbot  was  a  priest  who  embodied 
in  a  singular  manner,  if  not  the  highest,  at  least  the  most 
persistent  traditions  of  the  Roman  Curia.  He  was  a  master 
of  various  arts  which  the  practice  of  ages  has  brought  to 
perfection  under  the  friendly  shadow  of  the  triple  tiara. 
He  could  mingle  together  astuteness  and  holiness  without 
any  difficulty;  he  could  make  innuendoes  as  naturally  as 
an  ordinary  man  makes  statements  of  fact;  he  could 
apply  flattery  with  so  unsparing  a  hand  that  even  Princes 
of  the  Church  found  it  sufficient;  and,  on  occasion,  he 
could  ring  the  changes  of  torture  on  a  human  soul  with 
a  tact  which  called  forth  universal  approbation.  With 
such  accomplishments,  it  could  hardly  be  expected  that 
Monsignor  Talbot  should  be  remarkable  either  for  a 
delicate  sense  of  conscientiousness  or  for  an  extreme  re- 
finement of  feeling,  but  then  it  was  not  for  those  qualities 
that  Manning  was  in  search  when  he  went  up  the  winding 
stair.  He  was  looking  for  the  man  who  had  the  ear  of  Pio 
Nono;  and,  on  the  other  side  of  the  low-arched  door,  he 
found  him.  Then  he  put  forth  all  his  efforts;  his  success 
was  complete;  and  an  alliance  began  which  was  destined 
to  have  the  profoundest  effect  upon  Manning's  career, 
and  was  only  dissolved  when,  many  years  later,  Monsignor 
Talbot  was  unfortunately  obliged  to  exchange  his  apart- 


JO  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

ment  in  the  Vatican  for  a  private  lunatic  asylum  at 
Passy. 

It  was  determined  that  the  coalition  should  be  ratified 
by  the  ruin  of  Dr.  Errington.  When  the  moment  of 
crisis  was  seen  to  be  approaching,  "Wiseman  was  sum- 
moned to  Rome,  where  he  began  to  draw  up  an  immense 
"scrittura"  containing  his  statement  of  the  case.  For 
months  past  the  redoubtable  energies  of  the  Archbishop 
of  Trebizond  had  been  absorbed  in  a  similar  task.  Folio 
was  being  piled  upon  folio,  when  a  sudden  blow  threat- 
ened to  put  an  end  to  the  whole  proceeding  in  a  summary 
manner.  The  Cardinal  was  seized  by  violent  illness,  and 
appeared  to  be  upon  his  deathbed.  Manning  thought  for 
a  moment  that  his  labours  had  been  in  vain  and  that  all 
was  lost.  But  the  Cardinal  recovered;  Monsignor  Talbot 
used  his  influence  as  he  alone  knew  how;  and  a  papal 
decree  was  issued  by  which  Dr.  Errington  was  "liberated" 
from  the  Coadjutorship  of  Westminster,  together  with 
the  right  of  succession  to  the  See. 

It  was  a  supreme  act  of  authority — a  "colpo  di  state 
di  Dominiddio,"  as  the  Pope  himself  said — and  the  blow 
to  the  Old  Catholics  was  correspondingly  severe.  They 
found  themselves  deprived  at  one  fell  swoop  both  of  the 
influence  of  their  most  energetic  supporter  and  of  the 
certainty  of  coming  into  power  at  Wiseman's  death.  And 
in  the  meantime  Manning  was  redoubling  his  energies  at 
Bayswater.  Though  his  Oblates  had  been  checked  over 
St.  Edmund's,  there  was  still  no  lack  of  work  for  them 
to  do.  There  were  missions  to  be  carried  on,  schools  to  be 
managed,  funds  to  be  collected.  Several  new  churches 
were  built;  a  community  of  most  edifying  nuns  of  the 
Third  Order  of  St.  Francis  was  established;  and  £30,000, 
raised  from  Manning's  private  resources  and  from  those 


CARDINAL     MANNING  7I 

of  his  friends,  was  spent  in  three  years.  "I  hate  that  man," 
one  of  the  Old  CathoHcs  exclaimed;  "he  is  such  a  forward 
piece."  The  words  were  reported  to  Manning,  who 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Poor  man  [he  said]  what  is  he  made  of?  Does  he  suppose,  in  his 
foolishness,  that  after  working  day  and  night  for  twenty  years 
in  heresy  and  schism,  on  becoming  a  Catholic  I  should  sit  in  an 
easy-chair  and  fold  my  hands  all  the  rest  of  my  life? 

But  his  secret  thoughts  were  of  a  different  caste. 

I  am  conscious  of  a  desire  [he  wrote  in  his  diary]  to  be  in  such 
a  position  (i)  as  I  had  in  times  past,  (2)  as  my  present  circum- 
stances imply,  (3)  as  my  friends  think  me  fit  for,  (4)  as  I  feel 
my  own  faculties  tend  to. 

But,  God  being  my  helper,  I  will  not  seek  it  by  the  lifting  of 
a  finger  or  the  speaking  of  a  word. 

So  Manning  wrote,  and  thought,  and  prayed;  but  what 
are  words,  and  thoughts,  and  even  prayers,  to  the  mysteri- 
ous and  relentless  powers  of  circumstance  and  character? 
Cardinal  Wiseman  was  slowly  dying;  the  tiller  of  the 
Church  was  slipping  from  his  feeble  hand;  and  Manning 
was  beside  him,  the  one  man  with  the  energy,  the  ability, 
the  courage,  and  the  conviction  to  steer  the  ship  upon 
her  course.  More  than  that;  there  was  the  sinister  figure 
of  a  Dr.  Errington  crouching  close  at  hand,  ready  to 
seize  the  helm  and  make  straight — who  could  doubt  it? — 
for  the  rocks.  In  such  a  situation  the  voice  of  self-abnega- 
tion must  needs  grow  still  and  small  indeed.  Yet  it  spoke 
on,  for  It  was  one  of  the  paradoxes  in  Manning's  soul  that 
that  voice  was  never  silent.  Whatever  else  he  was,  he  was 
not  unscrupulous.  Rather,  his  scruples  deepened  with  his 
desires;  and  he  could  satisfy  his  most  exorbitant  ambitions 
in  a  profoundity  of  self-abasement.  And  so  now  he  vowed 


72  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

to  Heaven  that  he  would  seek  nothing — no,  not  by  the 
lifting  of  a  finger  or  the  speaking  of  a  word.  But,  if  some- 
thing came  to  him — ?  He  had  vowed  not  to  seek;  he  had 
not  vowed  not  to  take.  Might  it  not  be  his  plain  dutv  tc 
take?  Might  it  not  be  the  will  of  God? 

Something,  of  course,  did  come  to  him,  though  it 
seemed  for  a  moment  that  it  would  elude  his  grasp.  Wise- 
man died,  and  there  ensued  in  Rome  a  crisis  of  extraor- 
dinary intensity.  "Since  the  creation  of  the  hierarchy," 
Monsignor  Talbot  wrote,  "it  is  the  greatest  moment  for 
the  Church  that  I  have  yet  seen."  It  was  the  duty  of  the 
Chapter  of  Westminster  to  nominate  three  candidates 
for  succession  to  the  Archbishopric;  they  made  one  last 
effort,  and  had  the  temerity  to  place  upon  the  list,  besides 
the  names  of  two  Old  Catholic  bishops,  that  of  Dr. 
Errington.  It  was  a  fatal  blunder.  Pius  IX.  was  furious; 
the  Chapter  had  committed  an  "insulta  al  Papa,"  he 
exclaimed,  striking  his  breast  three  times  in  his  rage. 
"It  was  the  Chapter  that  did  it,"  said  Manning  after- 
wards; but  even  after  the  Chapter's  indiscretion,  the  fatal 
decision  hung  in  the  balance  for  weeks. 

The  great  point  of  anxiety  with  me  [wrote  Monsignor  Talbot 
to  Manning]  is  whether  a  Congregation  will  be  held,  or  whether 
the  Holy  Father  will  perform  a  Pontifical  act.  He  himself  is 
doubting.  I  therefore  say  mass  and  pray  every  morning  that  he 
may  have  the  courage  to  choose  for  himself,  instead  of  submit- 
ting the  matter  to  a  Congregation.  Although  the  Cardinals  are 
determined  to  reject  Dr.  Errington,  nevertheless  I  am  afraid  that 
they  should  select  one  of  the  others.  You  know  very  well  that 
Congregations  are  guided  by  the  documents  that  are  placed 
before  them;  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  should  prefer  the  Pope's 
acting  himself. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  73 

But  the  Holy  Father  himself  was  doubting.  In  his 
indecision,  he  ordered  a  month  of  prayers  and  masses. 
The  suspense  grew  and  grew.  Everything  seemed  against 
Manning.  The  whole  English  episcopate  was  opposed  to 
him;  he  had  quarrelled  with  the  Chapter;  he  was  a  con- 
vert of  but  few  years'  standing;  even  the  congregated 
Cardinals  did  not  venture  to  suggest  the  appointment  of 
such  a  man.  But  suddenly  the  Holy  Father's  doubts  came 
to  an  end.  He  heard  a  voice — a  mysterious  inward  voice 
— whispering  something  in  his  ear.  ''Mettetelo  lir  "Met- 
tetelo  li!"  the  voice  repeated  over  and  over  again.  "Mette- 
telo  U!"  It  was  an  inspiration;  and  Pius  IX.,  brushing 
aside  the  recommendations  of  the  Chapter  and  the  de- 
liberations of  the  Cardinals,  made  Manning,  by  a  Pon- 
tifical act,  Archbishop  of  Westminster, 

Monsignor  Talbot's  felicity  was  complete;  and  he  took 
occasion,  in  conveying  his  congratulations  to  his  friend, 
to  make  some  illuminating  reflections  upon  the  great 
event. 

My  policy  throughout  [he  wrote]  was  never  to  propose  you 
directly  to  the  Pope,  but  to  make  others  do  so;  so  that  both  you 
and  I  can  always  say  that  it  was  not  I  who  induced  the  Holy 
Father  to  name  you,  which  would  lessen  the  weight  of  your 
appointment.  This  I  say,  because  many  have  said  that  your  being 
named  was  all  my  doing.  I  do  not  say  that  the  Pope  did  not  know 
that  I  thought  you  the  only  man  eligible;  as  I  took  care  to  tell 
him  over  and  over  again  what  was  against  all  the  other  candi- 
dates; and  in  consequence  he  was  ialmost  driven  into  naming 
you.  After  he  had  named  you,  the  Holy  Father  said  to  me,  "What 
a  diplomatist  you  are,  to  make  what  you  wished  come  to  pass!" 
Nevertheless  [concluded  Monsignor  Talbot]  I  believe  your 
appointment  was  specially  directed  by  the  Holy  Ghost. 


74  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Manning  himself  was  apparently  of  the  same  opinion. 

My  dear  Child  [he  wrote  to  a  lady  penitent],  I  have  in  these 
last  three  weeks  felt  as  if  our  Lord  had  called  me  by  name.  Every- 
thing else  has  passed  out  of  my  mind.  The  firm  belief  that  I 
have  long  had  that  the  Holy  Father  is  the  most  supernatural 
person  I  have  ever  seen  has  given  me  this  feeling  more  deeply 
still.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  brought,  contrary  to  all  human  wills, 
by  the  Divine  Will,  into  an  immediate  relation  to  our  Divine 
Lord. 

If  indeed  [he  wrote  to  Lady  Herbert],  it  were  the  will  of  our 
Divine  Lord  to  lay  upon  me  this  heavy  burden.  He  could  have 
done  it  in  no  way  more  strengthening  and  consoling  to  me.  To 
receive  it  from  the  hands  of  His  Vicar,  and  from  Pius  IX.,  and 
if ter  long  invocation  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  not  only  without 
human  influences,  but  in  spite  of  manifold  and  powerful  human 
opposition,  gives  me  the  last  strength  for  such  a  cross. 


VI 

Manning's  appointment  filled  his  opponents  with  alarm. 
"Wrath  and  vengeance  seemed  to  be  hanging  over  them; 
what  might  not  be  expected  from  the  formidable  enemy 
against  whom  they  had  struggled  for  so  long,  and  who 
now  stood  among  them  armed  with  archiepiscopal  powers 
and  invested  with  the  special  confidence  of  Rome?  Great 
was  their  amazement,  great  was  their  relief,  when  they 
found  that  their  dreaded  master  breathed  nothing  but 
kindness,  gentleness,  and  conciliation.  The  old  scores, 
they  found,  were  not  to  be  paid  off,  but  to  be  wiped  out. 
The  new  archbishop  poured  forth  upon  every  side  all  the 
tact,  all  the  courtesy,  all  the  dignified  graces  of  a  Christian 
magnanimity.  It  was  impossible  to  withstand  such  treat- 
ment. Bishops  who  had  spent  years  in  thwarting  him 
became  his  devoted  adherents;  even  the  Chapter  of  West- 
minster forgot  its  hatred.  Monsignor  Talbot  was  ex- 
tremely surprised.  "Your  greatest  enemies  have  entirely 
come  round,"  he  wrote.  "I  received  the  other  day  a 
panegyric  of  you  from  Searle.  This  change  of  feeling  I 
cannot  attribute  to  anything  but  the  Holy  Ghost."  Mon- 
signor Talbot  was  very  fond  of  the  Holy  Ghost;  but,  so 
far  at  any  rate  as  Searle  was  concerned,  there  was  another 
explanation.  Manning,  instead  of  dismissing  Searle  from 
his  position  of  "oeconomus"  in  the  episcopal  household, 
had  kept  him  on — at  an  increased  salary;  and  the  poor 
man,  who  had  not  scrupled  in  the  days  of  his  pride  to 
call  Manning  a  thief,  was  now  duly  gratefuL 

75 


7^  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

As  to  Dr.  Errington,  he  gave  an  example  of  humility 
and  submission  by  at  once  withdrawing  into  a  complete 
obscurity.  For  years  the  Archbishop  of  Trebizond,  the 
ejected  heir  to  the  See  of  "Westminster,  laboured  as  a 
parish  priest  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  He  nursed  no  resentment 
in  his  heart,  and,  after  a  long  and  edifying  life  of  peace 
and  silence,  he  died  in  i88^,  a  professor  of  theology  at 
Clifton. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  Manning  could  now  feel 
that  his  triumph  was  complete.  His  position  was  secure; 
his  power  was  absolute;  his  prestige  was  daily  growing. 
Yet  there  was  something  that  irked  him  still.  As  he  cast 
his  eyes  over  the  Roman  Catholic  community  in  Eng- 
land, he  was  aware  of  one  figure  which,  by  virtue  of  a 
peculiar  eminence,  seemed  to  challenge  the  supremacy  of 
his  own.  That  figure  was  Newman's. 

Since  his  conversion,  Newman's  life  had  been  a  long 
series  of  misfortunes  and  disappointments.  When  he  had 
left  the  Church  of  England,  he  was  its  most  distinguished, 
its  most  revered  member,  whose  words,  however  strange, 
were  listened  to  with  a  profound  attention,  and  whose 
opinions,  however  dubious,  were  followed  in  all  their 
fluctuations  with  an  eager  and  indeed  a  trembling  respect. 
He  entered  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  found  himself  forth- 
with an  unimportant  man.  He  was  received  at  the  Papal 
Court  with  a  politeness  which  only  faintly  concealed  a 
total  lack  of  interest  and  understanding.  His  delicate 
mind,  with  its  refinements,  its  hesitations,  its  complexi- 
ties— his  soft,  spectacled,  Oxford  manner,  with  its  half- 
effeminate  diffidence — such  things  were  ill  calculated  to 
impress  a  throng  of  busy  Cardinals  and  Bishops,  whose 
days  were  spent  amid  the  practical  details  of  ecclesiastical 
organisation,     the    long-drawn    involutions    of    papal 


CARDINAL     MANNING  jy 

diplomacy,  and  the  delicious  bickerings  of  personal  in- 
trigue. And  when,  at  last,  he  did  succeed  in  making  some 
impression  upon  these  surroundings,  it  was  no  better;  it 
was  worse.  An  uneasy  suspicion  gradually  arose;  it  be- 
gan to  dawn  upon  the  Roman  authorities  that  Dr.  New- 
man was  a  man  o£  ideas.  "Was  it  possible  that  Dr.  Newman 
did  not  understand  that  ideas  in  Rome  were,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  out  of  place?  Apparently  he  did  not;  nor  was 
that  all;  not  content  with  having  ideas,  he  positively 
seemed  anxious  to  spread  them.  When  that  was  known, 
the  politeness  in  high  places  was  seen  to  be  wearing  de- 
cidedly thin.  His  Holiness,  who  on  Newman's  arrival  had 
graciously  expressed  the  wish  to  see  him  "again  and 
again,"  now,  apparently,  was  constantly  engaged.  At 
first  Newman  supposed  that  the  growing  coolness  was 
the  result  of  misapprehension;  his  Italian  was  faulty,. 
Latin  was  not  spoken  at  Rome,  his  writings  had  only 
appeared  in  garbled  translations.  And  even  Englishmen 
had  sometimes  found  his  arguments  difficult  to  follow. 
He  therefore  determined  to  take  the  utmost  care  to 
make  his  views  quite  clear;  his  opinions  upon  religious 
probability,  his  distinction  between  demonstrative  and 
circumstantial  evidence,  his  theory  of  the  development  of 
doctrine  and  the  aspects  of  ideas — these  and  many  other 
matters,  upon  which  he  had  written  so  much,  he  would 
now  explain  in  the  simplest  language.  He  would  show 
that  there  was  nothing  dangerous  in  what  he  held,  that 
there  was  a  passage  in  De  Lugo  which  supported  him,  that 
Perrone,  by  maintaining  that  the  Immaculate  Conception 
could  be  defined,  had  implicitly  admitted  one  of  his  main 
positions,  and  that  his  language  about  Faith  had  been  con- 
fused, quite  erroneously,  with  the  fideism  of  M.  Bautain. 
Cardinal  Barnabo,  Cardinal  Reisach,  Cardinal  Antonelli, 


yS  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

looked  at  him  with  their  shrewd  eyes  and  hard  faces,  while 
he  poured  into  their  ears — which,  as  he  already  noticed 
with  distress,  were  large  and  not  too  clean — his  careful 
disquisitions;  but  it  was  all  in  vain;  they  had  clearly  never 
read  De  Lugo  or  Perrone,  and  as  for  M.  Bautain,  they  had 
never  heard  of  him.  Newman  in  despair  fell  back  upon 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas;  but,  to  his  horror,  he  observed  that 
St.  Thomas  himself  did  not  mean  very  much  to  the  Cardi- 
nals. "With  a  sinking  heart,  he  realised  at  last  the  painful 
truth :,it  was  not  the  nature  of  his  views,  it  was  his  having 
views  at  all,  that  was  objectionable.  He  had  hoped  to  de- 
vote the  rest  of  his  life  to  the  teaching  of  Theology;  but 
what  sort  of  Theology  could  he  teach  which  would  be 
acceptable  to  such  superiors?  He  left  Rome,  and  settled 
down  in  Birmingham  as  the  head  of  a  small  community  of 
Oratorians.  He  did  not  complain;  it  was  God's  will;  it 
was  better  so.  He  would  watch  and  pray. 

But  God's  will  was  not  quite  so  simple  as  that.  "Was  it 
right,  after  all,  that  a  man  with  Newman's  intellectual 
gifts,  his  devoted  ardour,  his  personal  celebrity,  should 
sink  away  out  of  sight  and  use  in  the  dim  recesses  of  the 
Oratory  at  Birmingham?  If  the  call  were  to  come  to  him 
to  take  his  talent  out  of  the  napkin,  how  could  he  refuse? 
And  the  call  did  come.  A^  Catholic  University  was  being 
started  in  Ireland,  and  Dr.  Cullen,  the  Archbishop  of 
Armagh,  begged  Newman  to  become  the  Rector.  At  first 
he  hesitated,  but  when  he  learnt  that  it  was  the  Holy 
Father's  wish  that  he  should  take  up  the  work,  he  could 
doubt  no  longer;  the  offer  was  sent  from  Heaven.  The 
difficulties  before  him  were  very  great;  not  only  had  a  new 
University  to  be  called  up  out  of  the  void,  but  the  posi- 
tion was  complicated  by  the  presence  of  a  rival  institution 


CARDINAL     MANNING  79 

—the  undenominational  Queen's  Colleges,  founded  by 
Peel  a  few  years  earlier  with  the  object  of  giving  Irish 
Catholics  facilities  for  University  education  on  the  same 
terms  as  their  fellow-countrymen.  Yet  Newman  had  the 
highest  hopes.  He  dreamt  of  something  greater  than  a 
merely  Irish  University — of  a  noble  and  flourishing  centre 
of  learning  for  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  and  England  alike. 
And  why  should  not  his  dream  come  true?  "In  the  midst 
of  our  difficulties,"  he  said,  "I  have  one  ground  of  hope, 
just  one  stay,  but,  as  I  think,  a  sufficient  one,  which  serves 
me  in  the  stead  of  all  other  argument  whatever.  It  is  the 
decision  of  the  Holy  See;  St.  Peter  has  spoken." 

The  years  that  followed  showed  to  what  extent  It  was 
safe  to  depend  upon  St.  Peter.  Unforeseen  obstacles 
cropped  up  on  every  side.  Newman's  energies  were  untir- 
ing, but  so  was  the  Inertia  of  the  Irish  authorities.  On  his 
appointment,  he  wrote  to  Dr.  Cullen  asking  that  arrange- 
ments might  be  made  for  his  reception  In  Dublin.  Dr. 
Cullen  did  not  reply.  Newman  wrote  again,  but  still  there 
was  no  answer.  "Weeks  passed,  months  passed,  years  passed, 
and  not  a  word,  not  a  sign,  came  from  Dr.  Cullen.  At  last, 
after  dangling  for  more  than  two  years  in  the  uncertain- 
ties and  perplexities  of  so  strange  a  situation,  Newman 
was  summoned  to  Dublin.  There  he  found  nothing  but 
disorder  and  discouragement.  The  laity  took  no  interest 
in  the  scheme,  the  clergy  actively  disliked  it;  Newman's 
authority  was  disregarded.  He  appealed  to  Cardinal  Wise- 
man, and  then  at  last  a  ray  of  hope  dawned.  The  Cardinal 
suggested  that  a  bishopric  should  be  conferred  upon  him, 
to  give  him  a  status  suitable  to  his  position;  Dr.  Cullen 
acquiesced,  and  Plus  IX.  was  all  compliance.  "Manderemo 
a  Newman  la  crocetta,"  he  said  to  Wiseman,  smilingly 


8o  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

drawing  his  hands  down  each  side  of  his  neck  to  his  breast, 
"lo  f  aremo  vescovo  di  Porfirio,  o  qualche  luogo."  The  news 
spread  among  Newman's  friends,  and  congratulations  be- 
gan to  come  in.  But  the  official  intimation  seemed  to  be 
unaccountably  delayed;  no  crocetta  came  from  Rome, 
and  Cardinal  Wiseman  never  again  referred  to  the  matter. 
Newman  was  left  to  gather  that  the  secret  representa- 
tions of  Dr.  Cullen  had  brought  about  a  change  of  counsel 
in  high  quarters.  His  pride  did  not  allow  him  to  enquire 
further;  but  one  of  his  lady  penitents,  Miss  Giberne,  was 
less  discreet.  "Holy  Father,"  she  suddenly  said  to  the  Pope 
in  an  audience  one  day,  "why  don't  you  make  Father 
Newman  a  bishop?"  Upon  which  the  Holy  Father  looked 
much  confused  and  took  a  great  deal  of  snuff. 

For  the  next  five  years  Newman,  unaided  and  ignored, 
struggled  desperately,  like  a  man  in  a  bog,  with  the  over- 
mastering difficulties  of  his  task.  His  mind,  whose  native 
haunt  was  among  the  far  aerial  boundaries  of  fancy  and 
philosophy,  was  now  clamped  down  under  the  fetters 
of  petty  detail,  and  fed  upon  the  mean  diet  of  com- 
promise and  routine.  He  had  to  force  himself  to  scrape 
together  money,  to  write  articles  for  the  students' 
Gazette,  to  make  plans  for  medical  laboratories,  to  be 
ingratiating  with  the  City  Council;  he  was  obliged  to 
spend  months  travelling  through  the  remote  regions  of 
Ireland  in  the  company  of  extraordinary  ecclesiastics  and 
barbarous  squireens.  He  was  a  thoroughbred  harnessed  to 
a  four-wheeled  cab;  and  he  knew  it.  Eventually  he  real- 
ised something  else:  he  saw  that  the  whole  project  of  a 
Catholic  University  had  been  evolved  as  a  political  and 
ecclesiastical  weapon  against  the  Queen's  Colleges  of 
Peel,  and  that  was  all.  As  an  instrument  of  education,  it 


CARDINAL     MANNING  8l 

was  simply  laughed  at;  and  he  himself  had  been  called 
in  because  his  name  would  be  a  valuable  asset  in  a  party- 
game.  When  he  understood  that  he  resigned  his  rector- 
ship and  returned  to  the  Oratory, 

But  his  tribulations  were  not  yet  over.  It  seemed  to  be 
God's  will  that  he  should  take  part  in  a  whole  succession 
of  schemes,  which,  no  less  than  the  project  of  the  Irish 
University,  were  to  end  in  disillusionment  and  failure. 
He  was  persuaded  by  Cardinal  Wiseman  to  undertake 
the  editorship  of  a  new  English  version  of  the  Scriptures, 
which  was  to  be  a  monument  of  Catholic  scholarship 
and  an  everlasting  glory  to  Mother  Church.  He  made 
elaborate  preparations;  he  collected  subscriptions,  engaged 
contributors,  and  composed  a  long  and  learned  prolego- 
mena to  the  work.  It  was  all  useless;  Cardinal  Wiseman 
began  to  think  of  other  things;  and  the  scheme  faded  im- 
perceptibly into  thin  air.  Then  a  new  task  was  suggested 
to  him.  The  Rambler,  a  Catholic  periodical,  had  fallen  on 
evil  days;  would  Dr.  Newman  come  to  the  rescue,  and 
accept  the  editorship?  This  time  he  hesitated  rather  longer 
than  usual;  he  had  burnt  his  fingers  so  often;  he  must  be 
specially  careful  now.  "I  did  all  I  could  to  ascertain  God's 
Will,"  he  said,  and  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was 
his  duty  to  undertake  the  work.  He  did  so,  and  after 
two  numbers  had  appeared  Dr.  Ullathorne,  the  Bishop 
of  Birmingham,  called  upon  him,  and  gently  hinted  that 
he  had  better  leave  the  paper  alone.  Its  tone  was  not  liked 
at  Rome;  it  had  contained  an  article  criticising  St.  Pius  V., 
arid,  most  serious  of  all,  the  orthodoxy  of  one  of  New- 
man's own  essays  had  appeared  to  be  doubtful.  He  re- 
signed, and  in  the  anguish  of  his  heart  d«termined  never 
to  write  again.  One  of  his  friends  asked  him  why  he  was 


82  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

publishing  nothing.  "Hannibal's  elephants,"  he  replied, 
"never  could  learn  the  goose-step." 

Newman  was  now  an  old  man — he  was  sixty-three 
years  of  age.  What  had  he  to  look  forward  to?  A  few  last 
years  of  insignificance  and  silence.  What  had  he  to  look 
back  upon?  A  long  chronicle  of  wasted  efforts,  dis- 
appointed hopes,  neglected  possibilities,  unappreciated 
powers.  And  now  all  his  labours  had  ended  by  his  being 
accused  at  Rome  of  lack  of  orthodoxy.  He  could  not 
longer  restrain  his  indignation,  and  in  a  letter  to  one  of 
his  lady  penitents  he  gave  vent  to  the  bitterness  of  his 
soul.  When  his  Rambler  article  had  been  complained  of, 
he  said,  there  had  been  some  talk  of  calling  him  to  Rome. 

Call  me  to  Rome  [he  burst  out] — what  does  that  mean?  It 
means  to  sever  an  old  man  from  his  home,  to  subject  him  to  inter- 
course with  persons  whose  languages  are  strange  to  him — to 
food  and  to  fashions  which  are  almost  starvation  on  the  one 
hand,  and  involve  restless  days  and  nights  on  the  other — it 
means  to  oblige  him  to  dance  attendance  on  Propaganda  week 
after  week  and  month  after  month — it  means  his  death,  (It  was 
the  punishment  on  Dr.  Baines,  1840-41,  to  keep  him  at  the 
door  o^  Propaganda  for  a  year.) 

This  is  the  prospect  which  I  cannot  but  feel  probable,  did 
I  say  anything  which  one  Bishop  in  England  chose  to  speak 
against  and  report.  Others  have  been  killed  before  me.  Lucas 
went  of  his  own  accord  indeed — but  when  he  got  there,  oh! 
how  much  did  he,  as  loyal  a  son  of  the  Church  and  the  Holy 
See  as  ever  was,  what  did  he  suffer  because  Dr.  Cullen  was 
against  him?  He  wandered  (as  Dr.  Cullen  said  in  a  letter  he 
published  in  a  sort  of  triumph),  he  wandered  from  Church  to 
Church  without  a  friend,  and  hardly  got  an  audience  from  the 
Pope.  And  I  too  should  go  from  St.  Philip  to  Our  Lady,  and  to 
St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  and  to  St.  Laurence  and  to  St.  Cecilia,  and, 
if  it  happened  to  me  as  to  Lucas,  should  come  back  to  die. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  83 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all,  in  spite  of  these  exasperations  of 
the  flesh,  these  agitations  of  the  spirit,  what  was  there  to 
regret?  Had  he  not  a  mysterious  consolation  which  out- 
weighed every  grief?  Surely,  surely,  he  had. 

Unveil,  O  Lord,  and  on  us  shine 
In  glory  and  in  grace, 

he  exclaims  in  a  poem  written  at  this  time,  called,  "The 
Two  Worlds"— 

This  gaudy  world  grows  pale  before 
The  beauty  of  Thy  face. 

Till  Thou  art  seen  it  seems  to  be 

A  sort  of  fairy  ground, 
Where  suns  unsetting  light  the  sky, 

And  flowers  and  fruit  abound. 

But  when  Thy  keener,  purer  beam 

Is  poured  upon  our  sight, 
It  loses  all  its  power  to  charm. 

And  what  was  day  is  night.  .  .  . 

And  thus,  when  we  renounce  for  Thee 

Its  restless  aims  and  fears, 
The  tender  memories  of  the  past, 

The  hopes  of  coming  years. 

Poor  is  our  sacrifice,  whose  eyes 
•    Are  lighted  from  above; 
We  offer  what  we  cannot  keep. 
What  we  have  ceased  to  love. 

Such  were  Newman's  thoughts  when  an  unexpected 
event  occurred  which  produced  a  profound  effect  upon  his 
life.  Charles  Kingsley  attacked  his  good  faith  and  the  good 
faith  of  Catholics  in  general  in  a  magazine  article;  New- 


84  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

man  protested,  and  Kingsley  rejoined  in  an  irate  pamphlet. 
Newman's  reply  was  the  Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua,  which 
he  wrote  in  seven  weeks,  sometimes  working  twenty-two 
hours  at  a  stretch,  "constantly  in  tears,  and  constantly 
crying  out  with  distress."  The  success  of  the  book,  with 
its  transparent  candour,  its  controversial  brilliance,  the 
sweep  and  passion  of  its  rhetoric,  the  depth  of  its  personal 
feeling,  was  immediate  and  overwhelming;  it  was  recog- 
nised at  once  as  a  classic,  not  only  by  Catholics,  but  by 
the  whole  English  world.  From  every  side  expressions 
of  admiration,  gratitude,  and  devotion  poured  in.  It  was 
impossible  for  one  so  sensitive  as  Newman  to  the  opinions 
of  other  people  to  resist  the  happy  influence  of  such  an 
unlooked-for,  such  an  enormous  triumph.  The  cloud  of 
his  dejection  began  to  lift;  et  I'espoir  malgre  Ini  s'esf  glissS 
dans  son  coenr. 

It  was  only  natural  that  at  such  a  moment  his  thoughts 
should  return  to  Oxford.  For  some  years  past  proposals 
had  been  on  foot  for  establishing  there  a  Hall,  under  New- 
man's leadership,  for  Catholic  undergraduates.  The 
scheme  had  been  looked  upon  with  disfavour  in  Rome, 
and  it  had  been  abandoned;  but  now  a  new  opportunity 
presented  itself;  some  land  in  a  suitable  position  came  into 
the  market;  Newman,  with  his  reviving  spirits,  felt  that 
he  could  not  let  this  chance  go  by,  and  bought  the  land. 
It  was  his  intention  to  build  there  not  a  Hall,  but  a  Church, 
and  to  set  on  foot  a  "House  of  the  Oratory."  What  pos- 
sible objection  could  there  be  to  such  a  scheme?  He  ap- 
proached the  Bishop  of  Birmingham,  who  gave  his 
approval;  in  Rome  itself  there  was  no  hostile  sign.  The 
laity  were  enthusiastic  and  subscriptions  began  to  flow 
in.  Was  it  possible  that  all  was  well  at  last?  Was  it  con- 
ceivable that  the  strange  and  weary  pilgrimage   of  so 


CARDINAL     MANNING  gj 

many  years  should  end  at  length,  in  quietude  if  not  in 
happiness,  where  it  had  begun? 

It  so  happened  that  it  was  at  this  very  time  that  Man- 
ning was  appointed  to  the  See  of  Westminster.  The  desti-> 
nies  of  the  two  men,  which  had  run  parallel  to  one  another 
in  so  strange  a  fashion  and  for  so  many  years,  were 
now  for.a  moment  suddenly  to  converge.  Newly  clothed 
with  all  the  attributes  of  ecclesiastical  supremacy.  Man- 
ning found  himself  face  to  face  with  Newman,  upon 
whose  brows  were  glittering  the  fresh  laurels  of  spiritual 
victory — the  crown  of  an  apostolical  life.  It  was  the  meet- 
ing of  the  eagle  and  the  dove.  What  followed  showed, 
more  clearly  perhaps  than  any  other  incident  in  his  ca- 
reer, the  stuff  that  Manning  was  made  of.  Power  had 
come  to  him  at  last;  and  he  seized  it  with  all  the  avidity 
of  a  born  autocrat,  whose  appetite  for  supreme  dominion 
had  been  whetted  by  long  years  of  enforced  abstinence 
and  the  hated  simulations  of  submission.  He  was  the  ruler 
of  Roman  Catholic  England,  and  he  would  rule.  The 
nature  of  Newman's  influence  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  understand,  but  he  saw  that  it  existed ;  for  tv/enty  years 
he  had  been  unable  to  escape  the  unwelcome  iterations  of 
that  singular,  that  alien,  that  rival  renown;  and  now  it 
stood  in  his  path,  alone  and  inexplicable,  like  a  defiant 
ghost.  "It  is  remarkably  interesting,"  he  observed  coldly, 
when  somebody  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the 
Apologia;  "it  is  like  listening  to  the  voice  of  one  from  the 
dead."  And  such  voices,  with  their  sepulchral  echoes,  are 
apt  to  be  more  dangerous  than  living  ones;  they  attract 
too  much  attention;  they  must  be  silenced  at  all  costs. 
It  was  the  meeting  of  the  eagle  and  the  dove;  there  was 
a  hovering,  a  swoop,  and  then  the  quick  beak  and  the . 
relentless  talons  did  their  work. 


S6  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Even  before  his  accession  to  the  Archbishopric,  Man- 
ning had  scented  a  pecuhar  peril  in  Newman's  Oxford 
scheme,  and  so  soon  as  he  came  into  power  he  privately 
determined  that  the  author  of  the  Apologia  should  never 
be  allowed  to  return  to  his  old  University.  Nor  was  there 
any  lack  of  excellent  reasons  for  such  a  decision.  Oxford 
was  by  this  time  a  nest  of  liberalism;  it  was  no  fit  place 
for  Catholic  youths,  and  they  would  inevitably  be  at- 
tracted there  by  the  presence  of  Father  Newman.  And 
then,  had  not  Father  Newman's  orthodoxy  been  im- 
pugned? Had  he  not  been  heard  to  express  opinions  of 
most  doubtful  propriety  upon  the  question  of  the  Tem- 
poral Power?  Was  it  not  known  that  he  might  almost  bt 
said  to  have  an  independent  mind?  An  influence?  Yes,  he 
had  an  influence,  no  doubt;  but  what  a  fatal  kind  of  in- 
fluence to  which  to  subject  the  rising  generation  of  Catho- 
lic Englishmen! 

Such  were  the  reflections  which  Manning  was  careful 
to  pour  into  the  receptive  ear  of  Monsignor  Talbot.  That 
useful  priest,  at  his  post  of  vantage  in  the  Vatican,  was 
more  than  ever  the  devoted  servant  of  the  new  Arch- 
bishop. A  league,  offensive  and  defensive,  had  been  estab- 
lished between  the  two  friends. 

I  daresay  I  shall  have  many  opportunities  to  serve  you  in  Rome 
[wrote  Monsignor  Talbot  modestly]  and  I  do  not  think  my 
support  will  be  useless  to  you,  especially  on  account  of  the 
peculiar  character  of  the  Pope,  and  the  spirit  which  pervades 
Propaganda;  therefore  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  a  compact 
exists  between  us;  if  you  help  me,  I  shall  help  you.  [And  a  little 
later  he  added],  I  am  glad  you  accept  the  league.  As  I  have  al- 
ready done  for  years,  I  shall  support  you,  and  I  have  a  hundred 
ways  of  doing  so.  A  word  dropped  at  the  proper  occasion  works 
wonders. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  87 

Perhaps  it  was  hardly  necessary  to  remind  his  corre- 
spondent of  that. 

So  far  as  Newman  was  concerned  it  so  fell  out  that 
Monsignor  Talbot  needed  no  prompting.  During  the  sen- 
sation caused  by  the  appearance  of  the  Apologia,  it  had 
occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  an  excellent  plan  to 
secure  Newman  as  a  preacher  during  Lent  for  the  fash- 
ionable congregation  which  attended  his  church  in  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo;  and  he  had  accordingly  written  to 
invite  him  to  Rome.  His  letter  was  unfortunately  not  a 
tactful  one.  He  assured  Newman  that  he  would  find  in 
che  Piazza  del  Popolo  "an  audience  of  Protestants  more 
educated  than  could  ever  be  the  case  in  England,"  and 
"I  think  myself,"  he  had  added  by  way  of  extra  induce- 
ment, "that  you  will  derive  great  benefit  from  visiting 
Rome,  and  showing  yourself  to  the  Ecclesiastical  Authori- 
ties." Newman  smiled  grimly  at  this;  he  declared  to  a 
friend  that  the  letter  was  "insolent";  and  he  could  not 
resist  the  tem.ptation  of  using  his  sharp  pen. 

Dear  Monsignor  Talbot  [he  wrote  in  reply],  I  have  received 
your  letter,  inviting  me  to  preach  in  your  Church  at  Rome  to  an 
audience  of  Protestants  more  educated  than  could  ever  be  the 
case  in  England. 

However,  Birmingham  people  have  souls;  and  I  have  neither 
taste  nor  talent  for  the  sort  of  work  which  you  cut  out  for  me. 
And  I  beg  to  decline  your  offer. 

I  am,  yours  truly, 

John  H.  Newman. 

Such  words  were  not  the  words  of  wisdom.  It  is  easy 
to  imagine  the  feelings  of  Monsignor  Talbot.  "New- 
man's work  none  here  can  understand,"  he  burst  out  to 
his  friend.  "Poor  man,  by  living  almost  ever  since  he  has 


88  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

been  a  Catholic  surrounded  by  a  set  of  inferior  men  who 
idohse  him,  I  do  not  think  he  has  ever  acquired  the  Catho- 
Hc  instincts."  As  for  his  views  on  the  Temporal  Power — 
well,  people  said  that  he  had  actually  sent  a  subscription 
to  Garibaldi.  Yes,  the  man  was  incomprehensible,  heretical, 
dangerous;  he  was  "uncatholic  and  unchristian."  Mon- 
signor  Talbot  even  trembled  for  the  position  of  Manning 
in  England. 

I  am  afraid  that  the  old  school  of  Catholics  will  rally  round 
Newman  in  opposition  to  you  and  Rome.  Stand  firm,  do  not 
yield  a  bit  in  the  line  you  have  taken.  As  I  have  promised,  I 
shall  stand  by  you.  You  will  have  battles  to  fight,  because  every 
Englishman  is  naturally  anti-Roman.  To  be  Roman  is  to  an  Eng- 
lishman an  effort.  Dr.  Newman  is  more  English  than  the  Eng- 
lish. His  spirit  must  be  crushed. 

His  spirit  must  be  crushed!  Certainly  there  could  be  no 
doubt  of  that. 

"What  you  write  about  Dr.  Newman  [Manning  replied]  is  true. 
Whether  he  knows  it  or  not,  he  has  become  the  centre  of  those 
who  hold  low  views  about  the  Holy  See,  are  anti-Roman,  cold 
and  silent,  to  say  no  more,  about  the  Temporal  Power,  national, 
English,  critical  of  Catholic  devotions,  and  always  on  the  lower 
side.  .  .  .  You  will  take  care  [he  concluded]  that  things  are 
correctly  known  and  understood  where  you  are. 

The  confederates  matured  their  plans.  "While  Newman 
was  making  his  arrangements  for  the  Oxford  Oratory, 
Cardinal  Reisach  visited  London.  "Cardinal  Reisach  has 
just  left,"  wrote  Manning  to  Monsignor  Talbot:  "he  has 
seen  and  jmderstands  all  that  is  going  on  in  England."  But 
Newman  had  no  suspicions.  It  was  true  that  persistent 
rumours  of  his  unorthodoxy  and  his  anti-Roman  lean- 


CARDINAL     MANNING  8^ 

ings  had  begun  to  float  about,  and  these  rumours  had  been 
traced  to  Rome.  But  what  were  rumours?  Then,  too, 
Newman  found  out  that  Cardinal  Reisach  had  been  to 
Oxford  without  his  knowledge,  and  had  inspected  the  land 
for  the  Oratory.  That  seemed  odd;  but  all  doubts  were 
set  at  rest  by  the  arrival  from  Propaganda  of  an  official 
ratification  of  his  scheme.  There  would  be  nothing  but 
plain  sailing  now.  Newman  was  almost  happy;  radiant 
visions  came  into  his  mind  of  a  wonderful  future  in  Ox- 
ford, the  gradual  growth  of  Catholic  principles,  the  decay 
of  liberahsm,  the  inauguration  of  a  second  Oxford 
Movement,  the  conversion — who  knows? — of  Mark  Pat- 
tison,  the  triumph  of  the  Church.  .  .  .  "Earlier  failures  do 
not  matter  now,"  he  exclaimed  to  a  friend.  "I  see  that  I 
have  been  reserved  by  God  for  this." 

Just  then  a  long  blue  envelope  was  brought  Into  the 
room.  Newman  opened  it.  "All  is  over,"  he  said,  "I  am 
not  allowed  to  go."  The  envelope  contained  a  letter  from 
the  Bishop  announcing  that,  together  with  the  formal  per- 
mission for  an  Oratory  at  Oxford,  Propaganda  had  issued 
a  secret  instruction  to  the  effect  that  Newman  himself 
was  by  no  means  to  reside  there.  If  he  showed  signs  of 
doing  so,  he  was,  blindly  and  suavely  ("blande  suavi- 
terque"  were  the  words  of  the  Latin  instrument)  to  be 
prevented.  And  now  the  secret  instruction  had  come  into 
operation:  blande  suaviterqtie  Dr.  Newman's  spirit  had 
been  crushed. 

His  friends  made  some  gallant  efforts  to  retrieve  the 
situation;  but  it  was  in  vain.  Father  St.  John  hurried  to 
Rome;  and  the  indignant  laity  of  England,  headed  by 
Lord  Edward  Howard,  the  guardian  of  the  young  Duke 
of  Norfolk,  seized  the  opportunity  of  a  particularly  vim- 


90  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

lent  anonymous  attack  upon  Newman  to  send  him  an 
address,  in  which  they  expressed  their  feehng  that  "every 
blow  that  touches  you  inflicts  a  wound  upon  the  CathoHc 
Church  in  this  country."  The  only  result  was  an  outburst 
of  redoubled  fury  upon  the  part  of  Monsignor  Talbot.  The 
address,  he  declared,  was  an  insult  to  the  Holy  See.  "What 
is  the  province  of  the  laity?"  he  interjected.  "To  hunt,  to 
shoot,  to  entertain.  These  matters  they  understand,  but 
to  meddle  with  ecclesiastical  matters  they  have  no  right 
at  all."  Once  more  he  warned  Manning  to  be  careful. 

Dr.  Newman  is  the  most  dangerous  man  in  England,  and  you 
will  see  that  he  will  make  use  of  the  laity  against  your  Grace. 
You  must  not  be  afraid  of  him.  It  will  require  much  prudence, 
but  you  must  be  firm.  The  Holy  Father  still  places  his  confidence 
in  you;  but  if  you  yield  and  do  not  fight  the  battle  of  the  Holy 
See  against  the  detestable  spirit  growing  up  in  England,  he  will 
begin  to  regret  Cardinal  Wiseman,  who  knew  how  to  keep  the 
laity  in  order. 

Manning  had  no  thought  of  "yielding";  but  he  pointed 
out  to  his  agitated  friend  that  an  open  conflict  between 
himself  and  Newman  would  be  "as  great  a  scandal  to 
the  Church  in  England,  and  as  great  a  victory  to  the 
Anglicans,  as  could  be."  He  would  act  quietly,  and  there 
would  be  no  more  difficulty.  The  Bishops  were  united,  and 
the  Church  was  sound. 

On  this,  Monsignor  Talbot  hurried  round  to  Fathei  Jt. 
John's  lodgings  in  Rome  to  express  his  regret  at  the 
misunderstanding  that  had  arisen,  to  wonder  how  it  could 
possibly  have  occurred,  and  to  hope  that  Dr.  Newman 
might  consent  to  be  made  a  Protonotary  Apostolic.  That 
was  all  the  satisfaction  that  Father  St.  John  was  to  obtain 
from  his  visit  to  Rome.  A  few  weeks  later  the  scheme  of 
the  Oxford  Oratory  was  finally  quashed. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  9I 

When  all  was  over,  Manning  thought  that  the  time 
had  come  for  a  reconciHation.  He  made  advances  through 
a  common  friend;  what  had  he  done,  he  asked,  to  offend 
Dr.  Newman?  Letters  passed,  and,  naturally  enough,  they 
only  widened  the  breach.  Newman  was  not  the  man  to 
be  polite. 

I  can  only  repeat  [he  wrote  at  last]  what  I  said  when  you  last 
heard  from  me.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  on  my  head  or 
my  heels  when  I  have  active  relations  with  you.  In  spite  of  my 
friendly  feelings,  this  is  the  judgment  of  my  intellect.  Mean- 
while [he  concluded],  I  propose  to  say  seven  masses  for  your 
intention  amid  the  difficulties  and  anxieties  of  your  ecclesiastical 
duties. 

And  Manning  could  only  return  the  compliment. 

At  about  this  time  the  Curate  of  Littlemore  had  a  sin- 
gular experience.  As  he  was  passing  by  the  Church  he 
noticed  an  old  man,  very  poorly  dressed  in  an  old  grey  coat 
with  the  collar  turned  up,  leaning  over  the  lych  gate,  in 
floods  of  tears.  He  was  apparently  in  great  trouble,  and  his 
hat  was  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  as  if  he  wished  to  hide 
his  features.  For  a  moment,  however,  he  turned  towards 
the  Curate,  who  was  suddenly  struck  by  something  fa- 
miliar in  the  face.  Could  it  be — ?  A  photograph  hung  over 
the  Curate's  mantelpiece  of  the  man  v/ho  had  made  Little- 
more  famous  by  his  sojourn  there  more  than  twenty  years 
ago;  he  had  never  seen  the  original;  but  now,  was  it 
possible — ?  He  looked  again,  and  he  could  doubt  no 
longer.  It  was  Dr.  Newman.  He  sprang  forward,  with 
proffers  of  assistance.  Could  he  be  of  any  use?  "Oh  no, 
no!"  was  the  reply.  "Oh  no,  no!"  But  the  Curate  felt  that 
he  could  not  turn  away,  and  leave  so  eminent  a  character  in 
such  distress.  "Was  it  not  Dr.  Newman  he  had  the  honour 


$2  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

of  addressing?"  he  asked,  with  all  the  respect  and  sym- 
pathy at  his  command.  "Was  there  nothing  that  could  be 
done?"  But  the  old  man  hardly  seemed  to  understand 
what  was  being  said  to  him.  "Oh  no,  no!"  he  repeated, 
with  the  tears  streaming  down  his  face.  "Oh  no,  no!" 


Til 

Meanwhile  a  remarkable  problem  was  absorbing  the 
attention  of  the  Catholic  Church.  Once  more,  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  eyes  of  all  Christendom  were  fixed  upon  Rome. 
The  temporal  Power  of  the  Pope  had  now  almost  vanished; 
but,  as  his  worldly  dominions  steadily  diminished,  the 
spiritual  pretensions  of  the  Holy  Father  no  less  steadily 
increased.  For  seven  centuries  the  immaculate  conception 
of  the  Virgin  had  been  highly  problematical;  Pio  Nono 
spoke,  and  the  doctrine  became  an  article  of  faith.  A  few 
years  later,  the  Court  of  Rome  took  another  step:  a  Syl- 
labus Erronun  was  issued,  in  which  all  the  favourite  be- 
liefs of  the  modern  world — the  rights  of  democracies,  the 
claims  of  science,  the  sanctity  of  free  speech,  the  principles 
of  toleration — were  categorically  denounced,  and  their 
supporters  abandoned  to  the  Divine  wrath.  Yet  it  was 
observed  that  the  modern  world  proceeded  as  before. 
Something  more  drastic  appeared  to  be  necessary — some 
bold  and  striking  measure  which  should  concentrate  the 
forces  of  the  faithful,  and  confound  their  enemies.  The 
tremendous  doctrine  of  Papal  Infallibility,  beloved  of  all 
good  Catholics,  seemed  to  offer  just  the  opening  that  was 
required.  Let  that  doctrine  be  proclaimed,  with  the  assent 
of  the  whole  Church,  an  article  of  faith,  and,  in  the  face 
of  such  an  affirmation,  let  the  modern  world  do  its  worst! 
Accordingly,  a  General  Council — the  first  to  be  held  since 
the  Council  of  Trent  more  than  300  years  before — was 
summoned  to  the  Vatican,  for  the  purpose,  so  it  was  an- 

93 


94  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

nounced,  of  providing  "an  adequate  remedy  to  the  dis- 
orders, intellectual  and  moral,  of  Christendom."  The 
programme  might  seem  a  large  one,  even  for  a  General 
Council;  but  everyone  knew  what  it  meant. 

Everyone,  however,  was  not  quite  of  one  mind.  There 
were  those  to  whom  even  the  mysteries  of  Infallibility 
caused  some  searchings  of  heart.  It  was  true,  no  doubt, 
that  Our  Lord,  by  saying  to  Peter,  "Thou  art  Cephas, 
which  is  by  interpretation  a  stone,"  thereby  endowed  that 
Apostle  with  the  supreme  and  full  primacy  and  princi- 
pality over  the  Universal  Catholic  Church;  it  was  equally 
certain  that  Peter  afterwards  became  the  Bishop  of  Rome; 
nor  could  it  be  doubted  that  the  Roman  Pontiff  was  his 
successor.  Thus  it  followed  directly  that  the  Roman  Pon- 
tiff was  the  head,  heart,  mind,  and  tongue  of  the  Catholic 
Church;  and  moreover,  it  was  plain  that  when  Our  Lord 
prayed  for  Peter  that  his  faith  should  not  fail,  that  prayer 
implied  the  doctrine  of  Papal  Infallibility.  All  these  things 

were  obvious,   and  yet — and   yet .   Might  not  the 

formal  declaration  of  such  truths  in  the  year  of  grace 
1870  be,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  inopportune?  Might  it  not 
come  as  an  offence,  as  a  scandal  even,  to  those  unacquainted 
with  the  niceties  of  Catholic  dogma?  Such  were  the  un- 
easy reflections  of  grave  and  learned  ecclesiastics  and 
theologians  in  England,  France,  and  Germany.  Newman 
was  more  than  usually  upset;  Monseigneur  Dupanloup 
was  disgusted;  and  Dr.  Dollinger  prepared  himself  for 
resistance.  It  was  clear  that  there  would  be  a  disaffected 
minority  at  the  Council. 

Catholic  apologists  have  often  argued  that  the  Pope's 
claim  to  infallibility  implies  no  more  than  the  necessary 
claim  of  every  ruler,  of  every  government,  to  the  right 
of  supreme  command.   In   England,    for  instance,   the 


CARDINAL     MANNING  95 

Estates  of  the  Realm  exercise  an  absolute  authority  in 
secular  matters;  no  one  questions  this  authority,  no  one 
suggests  that  it  is  absurd  or  exorbitant;  in  other  words,  by 
general  consent,  the  Estates  of  the  Realm  are,  within  their 
sphere,  infallible.  Why,  therefore,  should  the  Pope,  within 
his  sphere — the  sphere  of  the  Catholic  Church — be  denied 
a  similar  infallibility?  If  there  is  nothing  monstrous  in  an 
Act  of  Parliament  laying  down  what  all  men  shall  do, 
why  should  there  be  anything  monstrous  in  a  Papal  En- 
cyclical laying  down  what  all  men  shall  believe?  The  argu- 
ment is  simple;  in  fact,  it  is  too  simple;  for  it  takes  for 
granted  the  very  question  which  is  in  dispute.  Is  there 
indeed  no  radical  and  essential  distinction  between  su- 
premacy and  infallibility?  between  the  right  of  a  Borough 
Council  to  regulate  the  traffic  and  the  right  of  the  Vicar 
of  Christ  to  decide  upon  the  qualifications  for  Everlasting 
Bliss?  There  is  one  distinction,  at  any  rate,  which  is 
palpable:  the  decisions  of  a  supreme  authority  can  be 
altered;  those  of  an  infallible  authority  cannot.  A  Bor- 
ough Council  may  change  its  traffic  regulations  at  the  next 
meeting;  but  the  Vicar  of  Christ,  when,  in  certain  cir- 
cumstances and  with  certain  precautions,  he  has  once 
spoken,  has  expressed,  for  all  the  ages,  a  part  of  the 
immutable,  absolute,  and  eternal  Truth.  It  is  this  that 
makes  the  papal  pretensions  so  extraordinary  and  so  enor- 
mous. It  is  also  this  that  gives  them  their  charm.  Catholic 
apologists,  when  they  try  to  tone  down  those  pretensions 
and  to  explain  them  away,  forget  that  it  is  in  their  very 
exorbitance  that  their  fascination  lies.  If  the  Pope  were 
indeed  nothing  more  than  a  magnified  Borough  Council- 
lor, we  should  hardly  have  heard  so  much  of  him.  It  is  not 
because  he  satisfies  the  reason,  but  because  he  astounds  it, 
that  men  abase  themselves  before  the  Vicar  of  Christ. 


96'  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

And  certainly  the  doctrine  of  Papal  Infallibility  pre- 
sents to  the  reason  a  sufficiency  of  stumbling-blocks.  In 
the  fourteenth  century,  for  instance,  the  following  case 
arose.  John  XXII.  asserted  in  his  bull  "Cum  inter  non- 
nullos"  that  the  doctrine  of  the  poverty  of  Christ  was 
heretical.  Now,  according  to  the  light  of  reason,  one  of 
two  things  must  follow  from  this — either  John  XXII. 
was  himself  a  heretic  or  he  was  no  Pope.  For  his  predecessor, 
Nicholas  III.,  had  asserted  in  his  bull  "Exiit  qui  seminat" 
that  the  doctrine  of  the  poverty  of  Christ  was  the 
true  doctrine,  the  denial  of  which  was  heresy.  Thus  if 
John  XXII.  was  right  Nicholas  III.  was  a  heretic,  and  in 
that  case  Nicholas's  nominations  of  Cardinals  were  void, 
and  the  conclave  which  elected  John  was  illegal;  so  that 
John  w  as  no  Pope,  his  nominations  of  Cardinals  were  void, 
and  the  whole  Papal  succession  vitiated.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  John  was  wrong — well,  he  was  a  heretic;  and  the 
same  inconvenient  results  followed.  And,  in  either  case, 
what  becomes  of  Papal  Infallibility? 

But  such  crude  and  fundamental  questions  as  these 
were  not  likely  to  trouble  the  Council.  The  discordant 
minority  took  another  line.  Infallibility  they  admitted 
readily  enough — the  infallibility,  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
Church;  what  they  shrank  from  was  the  pronouncement 
that  this  infallibility  was  concentrated  in  the  Bishop  of 
Rome.  They  would  not  actually  deny  that,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  was  so  concentrated;  but  to  declare  that  it  was, 
to  make  the  belief  that  it  was  an  article  of  faith — what 
could  be  more — it  was  their  favourite  expression — more 
inopportune?  In  truth,  the  Gallican  spirit  still  lingered 
among  them.  At  heart,  they  hated  the  autocracy  of  Rome 
— the  domination  of  the  centralised  Italian  organisation 
over  the  whole  vast  body  of  the  Church.  They  secretly 


CARDINAL     MANNING  97 

hankered,  even  at  this  late  hour,  after  some  form  of  con- 
stitutional government,  and  they  knew  that  the  last  faint 
vestige  of  such  a  dream  would  vanish  utterly  with  the 
declaration  of  the  infallibility  of  the  Pope.  It  did  not 
occur  to  them,  apparently,  that  a  constitutional  Catholi- 
cism might  be  a  contradiction  in  terms,  and  that  the 
Catholic  Church  without  the  absolute  dominion  of 
the  Pope  might  resemble  the  play  of  Hamlet  without  the 
Prince  of  Denmark. 

Pius  IX.  himself  was  troubled  by  no  doubts.  "Before  I 
was  Pope,"  he  observed,  "I  believed  in  Papal  Infallibility, 
now  I  feel  it."  As  for  Manning,  his  certainty  was  no  less 
complete  than  his  master's.  Apart  from  the  Holy  Ghost, 
his  appointment  to  the  See  of  Westminster  had  been  due 
to  Pio  Nono's  shrewd  appreciation  of  the  fact  that  he 
was  the  one  man  in  England  upon  whose  fidelity  the 
Roman  Government  could  absolutely  rely.  The  voice 
which  kept  repeating  "Mettetelo  li,  mettetelo  li"  in  his 
Holiness's  ear,  whether  or  not  it  was  inspired  by  God, 
was  certainly  inspired  by  political  sagacity.  For  now  Man- 
ning was  to  show  that  he  was  not  unworthy  of  the  trust 
which  had  been  reposed  in  him.  He  flew  to  Rome  in  a 
whirlwind  of  Papal  enthusiasm.  On  the  way,  in  Paris, 
he  stopped  for  a  moment  to  interview  those  two  great 
props  of  French  respectability,  M.  Guizot  and  M.  Thiers. 
Both  were  careful  not  to  commit  themselves,  but  both 
were  exceedingly  polite.  "I  am  awaiting  your  Council," 
said  M.  Guizot,  "with  great  anxiety.  It  is  the  last  great 
moral  power  and  may  restore  the  peace  of  Europe." 
M.  Thiers  delivered  a  brief  harangue  in  favour  of  the 
principles  of  the  Revolution,  which,  he  declared,  were  the 
very  marrow  of  all  Frenchmen;  yet,  he  added,  he  had 
always  supported   the  Temporal   Power   of   the   Pope. 


98  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

"Mais,  M.  Thiers,"  said  Manning,  "vous  etes  eflfective- 
ment  croyant."  "En  Dieu,"  replied  M.  Thiers. 

The  Rome  which  Manning  reached  towards  the  close 
of  18^9  was  still  the  Rome  which,  for  so  many  centuries, 
had  been  the  proud  and  visible  apex,  the  palpitating  heart, 
the  sacred  sanctuary,  of  the  most  extraordinary  mingling 
of  spiritual  and  earthly  powers  that  the  world  has  ever 
known.  The  Pope  now,  it  is  true,  ruled  over  little  more 
than  the  City  itself — the  Patrimony  of  St.  Peter — and  he 
ruled  there  less  by  the  grace  of  God  than  by  the  goodwill 
of  Napoleon  III.;  yet  he  was  still  a  sovereign  Prince;  and 
Rome  was  still  the  capital  of  the  Papal  State;  she  was 
not  yet  the  capital  of  Italy.  The  last  hour  of  this  strange 
dorhinion  had  almost  struck.  As  if  she  knew  that  her  doom 
was  upon  her  the  Eternal  City  arrayed  herself  to  meet  it  in 
all  her  glory.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  be  gathered 
together  within  her  walls.  Her  streets  were  filled  with 
crowned  heads  and  Princes  of  the  Church,  great  ladies 
and  great  theologians,  artists  and  friars,  diplomats  and 
newspaper  reporters.  Seven  hundred  bishops  were  there, 
from  all  the  corners  of  Christendom,  and  in  all  the  varieties 
of  ecclesiastical  magnificence — in  falling  lace  and  sweep- 
ing purple  and  flowing  violet  veils.  Zouaves  stood  in  the 
colonnade  of  St.  Peter's,  and  Papal  troops  were  on  the 
Quirinal.  Cardinals  passed,  hatted  and  robed,  in  their 
enormous  carriages  of  state,  like  mysterious  painted  idols. 
Then  there  was  a  sudden  hush:  the  crov/d  grew  thicker 
and  expectation  filled  the  air.  Yes!  it  was  he!  Pie  was  com- 
ing! The  Holy  Father!  But  first  there  appeared,  mounted 
on  a  white  mule  and  clothed  in  a  magenta  mantle,  a  grave 
dignitary  bearing  aloft  a  silver  cross.  The  golden  coach 
followed,  drawn  by  six  horses  gorgeously  caparisoned, 
and  within  the  smiling  white-haired  Pio  Nono,  scattering 


CARDINAL     MANNING  99 

his  benedictions,  while  the  multitude  fell  upon  its  knees 
as  one  man.  Such  were  the  daily  spectacles  of  coloured 
pomp  and  of  antique  solemnity,  which — so  long  as  the 
sun  was  shining,  at  any  rate — dazzled  the  onlooker  into 
a  happy  forgetfulness  of  the  reverse  side  of  the  Papal  dis- 
pensation— the  nauseating  filth  of  the  highways,  the 
cattle  stabled  in  the  palaces  of  the  great,  and  the  fever 
flitting  through  the  ghastly  tenements  of  the  poor. 

In  St.  Peter's,  the  North  Transept  had  been  screened 
off;  rows  of  wooden  seats  has  been  erected,  covered  with 
Brussels  carpet;  and  upon  these  seats  sat,  each  crowned 
with  a  white  mitre,  the  seven  hundred  Bishops  in  Coun- 
cil. Here  all  day  long  rolled  forth,  in  sonorous  Latin,  the 
interminable  periods  of  episcopal  oratory;  but  it  was  not 
here  that  the  issue  of  the  Council  was  determined.  The 
assembled  Fathers  might  talk  till  the  marbles  of  St.  Peter's 
themselves  grew  weary  of  the  reverberations;  the  fate  of 
the  Church  was  decided  in  a  very  different  manner — by 
little  knots  of  influential  persons  meeting  quietly  of  a 
morning  in  the  back  room  of  some  inconspicuous  lodging- 
house,  by  a  sunset  rendezvous  in  the  Borghese  Gardens 
between  a  Cardinal  and  a  Diplomatist,  by  a  whispered 
conference  in  an  alcove  at  a  Princess's  evening  party,  with 
the  gay  world  chattering  all  about.  And,  of  course,  on 
such  momentous  occasions  as  these.  Manning  was  in  his 
element.  None  knew  those  difficult  ropes  better  than  he; 
none  used  them  with  a  more  serviceable  and  yet  discreet 
alacrity.  In  every  juncture  he  had  the  right  word,  or  the 
right  silence;  his  influence  ramified  in  all  directions,  from 
the  Pope's  audience  chamber  to  the  English  Cabinet.  "II 
Diavolo  del  Concilio"  his  enemies  called  him;  and  he 
gloried  in  the  name. 

The  real  crux  of  the  position  was  less  ecclesiastical  than 


lOO  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

diplomatic.  The  Papal  Court,  with  its  huge  majority  of 
Italian  Bishops,  could  make  sure  enough,  when  it  came 
to  the  point,  of  carrying  its  wishes  through  the  Council; 
what  was  far  more  dubious  was  the  attitude  of  the  foreign 
Governments — especially  those  of  France  and  England. 
The  French  Government  dreaded  a  schism  among  its 
Catholic  subjects;  it  disliked  the  prospect  of  an  extension 
of  the  influence  of  the  Pope  over  the  m.ass  of  the  popula- 
tion of  France;  and,  since  the  very  existence  of  the  last 
remnant  of  the  Pope's  Temporal  Power  depended  upon 
the  French  army,  it  was  able  to  apply  considerable  pres- 
sure upon  the  Vatican.  The  interests  of  England  were  less 
directly  involved,  but  it  happened  that  at  this  moment 
Mr.  Gladstone  was  Prime  Minister,  and  Mr.  Gladstone 
entertained  strong  views  upon  the  Infallibility  of  the 
Pope.  His  opinions  upon  the  subject  were  in  part  the  out- 
come of  his  friendship  with  Lord  Acton,  a  historian  to 
whom  learning  and  judgment  had  not  been  granted  in 
equal  proportions,  and  who,  after  years  of  incredible  and 
indeed  well-nigh  mythical  research,  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  Pope  could  err.  In  this  Mr.  Gladstone 
entirely  concurred,  though  he  did  not  share  the  rest  of 
his  friend's  theological  opinions;  for  Lord  Acton,  while 
straining  at  the  gnat  of  Infallibility,  had  swallowed  the 
camel  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Faith.  "Que  diable  allait-il 
faire  dans  cette  galere?"  one  cannot  help  asking,  as  one 
watches  that  laborious  and  scrupulous  scholar,  that  life- 
long enthusiast  for  liberty,  that  almost  hysterical  reviler 
of  priestcraft  and  persecution,  trailing  his  learning  so 
discrepantly  along  the  dusty  Roman  way.  But  there  are 
some  who  know  how  to  wear  their  Rome  with  a  difference; 
and  Lord  Acton  was  one  of  these. 

He  was  now  engaged  in  fluttering  like  a  moth  round 


CARDINAL     MANNING  lOI 

the  Council,  and  in  writing  long  letters  to  Mr.  Gladstone, 
impressing  upon  him  the  gravity  of  the  situation,  and  urg- 
ing him  to  bring  his  influence  to  bear.  If  the  Dogma  were 
carried,  he  declared,  no  man  who  accepted  it  could  remain 
a  loyal  subject,, and  Catholics  would  everywhere  become 
"irredeemable  enemies  of  civil  and  religious  liberty."  In 
these  circumstances,  was  it  not  plainly  incumbent  upon 
the  English  Government,  involved  as  it  was  with  the 
powerful  Roman  Catholic  forces  in  Ireland,  to  intervene? 
Mr.  Gladstone  allowed  himself  to  become  convinced,  and 
Lord  Acton  began  to  hope  that  his  efforts  would  be  suc- 
cessful. But  he  had  forgotten  one  element  in  the  situation; 
he  had  reckoned  without  the  Archbishop  of  "Westminster. 
The  sharp  nose  of  Manning  sniffed  out  the  whole  intrigue. 
Though  he  despised  Lord  Acton  almost  as  much  as  he 
disliked  him — "such  men,"  he  said,  "are  all  vanity:  they 
have  the  inflation  of  Germian  professors,  and  the  ruthless 
talk  of  undergraduates" — yet  he  realised  clearly  enough 
the  danger  of  his  correspondence  with  the  Prime  Min- 
ister, and  immediately  took  steps  to  counteract  it.  There 
was  a  semi-official  agent  of  the  English  Government  in 
Rome,  Mr.  Odo  Russell,  and  round  him  Manning  set  to 
work  to  spin  his  spider's  web  of  delicate  and  clinging 
diplomacy.  Preliminary  politnesses  were  followed  by  long 
walks  upon  the  Pincio,  and  the  gradual  interchange  of 
more  and  more  important  and  confidential  communica- 
tions. Soon  poor  Mr.  Russell  was  little  better  than  a  fly 
buzzing  in  gossamer.  And  Manning  was  careful  to  see  that 
he  buzzed  on  the  right  note.  In  his  despatches  to  the 
Foreign  Secretarj^  Lord  Clarendon,  Mr.  Russell  explained 
in  detail  the  true  nature  of  the  Council,  that  it  was  merely 
a  meeting  of  a  few  Roman  Catholic  prelates  to  discuss 
some  internal  matters  of  Church  discipline,  that  it  had 


I02  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

no  political  significance  whatever,  that  the  question  of 
Infallibility,  about  v/hich  there  had  been  so  much  random 
talk,  was  a  purely  theological  question,  and  that,  whatever 
decision  might  be  come  to  upon  the  subject,  the  position 
of  Roman  Catholics  throughout  the  world  would  remain 
unchanged.  Whether  the  effect  of  these  affirmations  upon 
Lord  Clarendon  was  as  great  as  Manning  supposed,  is 
somewhat  doubtful;  but  it  is  at  any  rate  certain  that  Mr. 
Gladstone  failed  to  carry  the  Cabinet  with  him;  and  when 
at  last  a  proposal  was  definitely  made  that  the  English 
Government  should  invite  the  Powers  of  Europe  to  inter- 
vene at  the  Vatican,  it  was  rejected.  Manning  always  be- 
lieved that  this  was  the  direct  result  of  Mr.  Russell's 
despatches,  which  had  acted  as  an  antidote  to  the  poison 
of  Lord  Acton's  letters,  and  thus  carried  the  day.  If  that 
was  so — the  discretion  of  biographers  has  not  yet  entirely 
lifted  the  veil  from  these  proceedings — Manning  had  as- 
suredly performed  no  small  service  for  his  cause.  Yet  his 
modesty  would  not  allow  him  to  assume  for  himself  a 
credit  which,  after  all,  was  due  elsewhere;  and,  when  he 
told  the  story  of  those  days,  he  would  add,  with  more  than 
wonted  seriousness,  "It  was  by  the  Divine  Will  that  the 
designs  of  His  enemies  were  frustrated." 

Meanwhile,  in  the  North  Transept  of  St.  Peter's  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  preliminary  business  had  been  carried 
through.  Various  miscellaneous  points  in  Christian  doc- 
trine had  been  satisfactorily  determined.  Among  others, 
the  following  Canons  were  laid  down  by  the  Fathers.  "If 
any  one  do  not  accept  for  sacred  and  canonical  the  whole 
and  every  part  of  the  Books  of  Holy  Scripture,  or  deny 
that  they  are  divinely  inspired,  let  him  be  anathema."  "If 
any  one  say  that  miracles  cannot  be,  and  therefore  the 
accounts  of  them,  even  those  in  Holy  Scriptures,  must  be 


CARDINAL     MANNING  IO3 

assigned  a  place  among  fables  and  myths,  or  that  the 
divine  origin  of  the  Christian  religion  cannot  rightly  be 
proved  from  them,  let  him  be  anathema."  "If  any  one 
say  that  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  can  ever  receive  a 
sense  in  accordance  with  the  progress  of  science,  other 
than  that  sense  which  the  Church  has  understood  and  still 
understands,  let  him  be  anathema."  "If  any  one  say  that 
it  is  not  possible,  by  the  natural  light  of  human  reason, 
to  acquire  a  certain  knowledge  of  The  One  and  True  God, 
let  him  be  anathema."  In  other  words,  it  became  an  article 
of  Faith  that  Faith  was  not  necessary  for  a  true  knowledge 
of  God.  Having  disposed  of  these  minor  matters,  the 
Fathers  found  themselves  at  last  approaching  the  great 
question  of  Infallibility.  Two  main  issues,  it  soon  appeared, 
were  before  them:  the  Pope's  Infallibility  was  admitted, 
ostensibly  at  least,  by  all;  what  remained  to  be  determined 
was,  ( I )  whether  the  definition  of  the  Pope's  Infallibility 
was  opportune  and  (2)  what  the  definition  of  the  Pope's 
Infallibility  was.  ( i )  It  soon  became  clear  that  the  sense  of 
the  Council  was  overwhelming  in  favour  of  a  definition. 
The  Inopportunists  were  a  small  minority;  they  were  out- 
voted, and  they  were  obliged  to  give  way.  It  only  re- 
mained, therefore,  to  come  to  a  decision  upon  the  second 
question — what  the  definition  should  actually  be.  (2)  It 
now  became  the  object  of  the  Inopportunists  to  limit  the 
scope  of  the  definition  as  much  as  possible,  while  the  In- 
fallibilists  were  no  less  eager  to  extend  it.  Now  every  one 
— or  nearly  every  one — was  ready  to  limit  the  Papal  In- 
fallibility to  pronouncements  ex  cathedra — that  is  to  say, 
to  those  made  by  the  Pope  in  his  capacity  of  Universal 
Doctor;  but  this  only  served  to  raise  the  ulterior,  the 
portentous,  and  indeed  the  really  crucial  question — to 
ivhicJo  of  the  Papal  pronouncements  ex  cathedra  did  In- 


I04  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

fallibility  adhere?  The  discussions  which  followed  were, 
naturally  enough,  numerous,  complicated,  and  embit- 
tered, and  in  all  of  them  Manning  played  a  conspicuous 
part.  For  two  months  the  Fathers  deliberated;  through 
fifty  sessions  they  sought  the  guidance  of  the  Hoh' 
Ghost.  The  wooden  seats,  covered  though  they  were 
with  Brussels  carpet,  grew  harder  and  harder;  and  still 
the  mitred  Councillors  sat  on.  The  Pope  himself  began  to 
grow  impatient;  for  one  thing,  he  declared,  he  was  being 
ruined  by  the  mere  expense  of  lodging  and  keeping  the 
multitude  of  his  adherents.  "Questi  infallibilisti  mi  fa- 
ranno  f  allire,"  said  his  Holiness.  At  length  it  appear<:d  that 
the  Inopportunists  were  dragging  out  the  proce»»dmgs 
in  the  hope  of  obtaining  an  indefinite  postponement.  Then 
the  authorities  began  to  act;  a  bishop  was  shouted  down, 
and  the  closure  was  brought  into  operation.  At  this  point 
the  French  Government,  after  long  hesitation,  finally  de- 
cided to  intervene,  and  Cardinal  Antonelli  was  informed 
that  if  the  Definition  was  proceeded  with  the  French 
troops  would  be  withdrawn  from  Rome.  But  the  astute 
Cardinal  judged  that  he  could  safely  ignore  the  threat.  He 
saw  that  Napoleon  III.  was  tottering  to  his  fall  and  would 
never  risk  an  open  rupture  with  the  Vatican.  Accordingly 
it  was  determined  to  bring  the  proceedings  to  a  close  by 
a  final  vote.  Already  the  Inopportunists,  seeing  that  the 
game  was  up,  had  shaken  the  dust  of  Rome  from  their 
feet.  On  July  1 8,  1 870,  the  Council  met  for  the  last  time. 
As  the  first  of  the  Fathers  stepped  forward  to  declare  his 
vote,  a  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  suddenly  burst 
over  St.  Peter's.  All  through  the  morning  the  voting  con- 
tinued, and  every  vote  was  accompanied  by  a  flash  and  a 
roar  from  heaven.  Both  sides,  with  equal  justice,  claimed 
the  portent  as  a  manifestation  of  the  Divine  Opinion. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  IO5 

When  the  votes  were  examined,  it  was  found  that  533 
were  in  favour  of  the  proposed  definition  and  two  against 
it.  Next  day  war  was  declared  between  France  and  Ger- 
many, and  a  few  weeks  later  the  French  troops  were  with- 
drawn from  Rome.  Almost  in  the  same  moment  the 
successor  of  St.  Peter  had  lost  his  Temporal  Power  and 
gained  Infallibility. 

What  the  Council  had  done  was  merely  to  assent  to  a 
definition  of  the  dogma  of  the  Infallibility  of  the  Roman 
Pontiflf  which  Pius  IX.  had  issued,  propria  motu,  a  few 
days  before.  The  definition  itself  was  perhaps  somewhat 
less  extreme  than  might  have  been  expected.  The  Pope,  it 
declared,  is  possessed,  when  he  speaks  ex  cathedra,  of  "that 
infallibility  with  which  the  Redeemer  willed  that  his 
Church  should  be  endowed  for  defining  doctrine  regard- 
ing faith  or  morals."  Thus  it  became  a  dogma  of  faith  that 
a  Papal  definition  regarding  faith  or  morals  is  infallible; 
but  beyond  that  both  the  Holy  Father  and  the  Council 
maintained  a  judicious  reserve.  Over  what  other  matters 
besides  faith  and  morals  the  Papal  Infallibility  might  or 
might  not  extend  still  remained  in  doubt.  And  there  were 
further  questions,  no  less  serious,  to  which  no  decisive  an- 
swer was  then,  or  ever  has  been  since  provided.  How  was 
it  to  be  determined,  for  instance,  which  particular  Papal 
decisions  did  in  fact  come  within  the  scope  of  the  Defini' 
tion?  Who  was  to  decide  what  was  or  was  not  a  matter 
of  faith  or  morals?  Or  precisly  ti/hen  the  Roman  Pontiff 
was  speaking  ex  cathedra?  Was  the  famous  Syllabus  Er- 
rorum,  for  example,  issued  ex  cathedra  or  not?  Grave 
theologians  have  never  been  able  to  make  up  their  minds. 
Yet  to  admit  doubts  In  such  matters  as  these  is  surely 
dangerous.  "In  duty  to  our  supreme  pastoral  office,"  pro- 


10^  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

claimed  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  "by  the  bowels  of  Christ 
we  earnestly  entreat  all  Christ's  faithful  people,  and  we 
also  command  them  by  the  authority  of  God  and  our 
Saviour,  that  they  study  and  labour  to  expel  and  eliminate 
errors  and  display  the  light  of  the  purest  faith."  Well 
might  the  faithful  study  and  labour  to  such  ends!  For, 
while  the  offence  remained  ambiguous,  there  was  no  am- 
biguity about  the  penalty.  One  hair's  breadth  from  the 
unknown  path  of  truth,  one  shadow  of  impurity  in  the 
mysterious  light  of  faith — and  there  shall  be  anathema! 
anathema!  anathema!  "When  the  framers  of  such  edicts 
called  upon  the  bowels  of  Christ  to  justify  them,  might 
they  not  have  done  well  to  have  paused  a  little,  and  to 
have  called  to  mind  the  counsel  of  another  sovereign  ruler, 
though  a  heretic — Oliver  Cromwell?  "Bethink  ye,  be- 
think ye,  in  the  bowels  of  Christ,  that  ye  may  be  mis- 
taken!" 

One  of  the  secondary  results  of  the  Council  was  the 
excommunication  of  Dr.  Dollinger  and  a  few  more  of  the 
most  uncompromising  of  the  Inopportunists.  Among 
these,  however,  Lord  Acton  was  not  included.  Nobody 
ever  discovered  why.  Was  it  because  he  was  too  important 
for  the  Holy  See  to  care  to  interfere  with  him?  Or  was 
it  because  he  was  not  important  enough? 

Another  ulterior  consequence  was  the  appearance  of 
a  pamphlet  by  Mr.  Gladstone,  entitled  "Vaticanism,"  in 
which  the  awful  implications  involved  in  the  declaration 
of  Infallibility  were  laid  before  the  British  public.  How 
was  It  possible,  Mr.  Gladstone  asked,  with  all  the  fulmi- 
nating accompaniments  of  his  most  agitated  rhetoric,  to 
depend  henceforward  upon  the  civil  allegiance  of  Roman 
Catholics?  To  this  question  the  words  of  Cardinal  Anto- 


CARDINAL     MANNING  IO7 

nelli  to  the  Austrian  Ambassador  might  have  seemed  a 
sufficient  reply.  "There  is  a  great  difference,"  said  his 
Eminence,  "between  theory  and  practice.  No  one  will  ever 
prevent  the  Church  from  proclaiming  the  great  principles 
upon  which  its  Divine  fabric  is  based;  but,  as  regards 
the  application  of  those  sacred  laws,  the  Church,  imitating 
the  example  of  its  Divine  Founder,  is  inclined  to  take  into 
consideration  the  natural  weaknesses  of  mankind."  And, 
in  any  case,  it  was  hard  to  see  how  the  system  of  Faith, 
which  had  enabled  Pope  Gregory  XIII.  to  effect,  by  the 
hands  of  English  Catholics,  a  whole  series  of  attempts  to 
murder  Queen  Elizabeth,  can  have  been  rendered  a  much 
more  dangerous  engine  of  disloyalty  by  the  Definition  of 
1870.  But  such  considerations  failed  to  reassure  Mr.  Glad- 
stone; the  British  Public  was  of  a  like  mind;  and  145,000 
copies  of  the  pamphlet  were  sold  within  two  months. 
Various  replies  appeared,  and  Manning  was  not  behind- 
hand. His  share  in  the  controversy  led  to  a  curious  personal 
encounter. 

His  conversion  had  come  as  a  great  shock  to  Mr.  Glad- 
stone. Manning  had  breathed  no  word  of  its  approach  to 
his  old  and  intimate  friend,  and  when  the  news  reached 
him,  it  seemed  almost  an  act  of  personal  injury.  "I  felt," 
Mr.  Gladstone  said,  "as  if  Manning  had  murdered  my 
mother  by  mistake."  For  twelve  years  the  two  men  did 
not  meet,  after  which  they  occasionally  saw  each  other 
and  renewed  their  correspondence.  This  was  the  condi- 
tion of  affairs  when  Mr.  Gladstone  published  his  pam- 
phlet. As  soon  as  it  appeared  Manning  wrote  a  letter  to 
the  Neiu  York  Herald,  contradicting  its  conclusions,  and 
declaring  that  its  publication  was  "the  first  event  that 
has  overcast  a  friendship  of  forty-five  years."  Mr.  Glad- 
stone replied  to  this  letter  in  a  second  pamphlet.  At  the 


I08  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

close  of  his  theological  arguments,  he  added  the  follow- 
ing passage: — 

I  feel  it  necessary,  in  concluding  this  answer,  to  state  that  Arch- 
bishop Manning  has  fallen  into  most  serious  inaccuracy  in  his 
letter  of  November  loth,  where  he  describes  my  Expostulation 
as  the  first  event  which  has  overcast  a  friendship  of  forty-five 
years.  I  allude  to  the  subject  with  regret;  and  without  entering 
into  details. 

Manning  replied  in  a  private  letter. 

My  dear  Gladstone  [he  wrote],  you  say  that  I  am  in  error  in 
stating  that  your  former  pamphlet  is  the  first  act  which  has 
overcast  our  friendship. 

If  you  refer  to  my  act  in  185  i  in  submitting  to  the  Catholic 
i^hurch,  by  which  we  were  separated  for  some  twelve  years, 
I  can  understand  it. 

If  you  refer  to  any  other  act  either  on  your  part  or  mine  I  am 
not  conscious  of  it,  and  would  desire  to  know  what  it  may  be. 

My  act  in  i  85  i  may  have  overcast  your  friendship  for  me.  It 
did  not  overcast  my  friendship  for  you,  as  I  think  the  last  years 
have  shown. 

You  will  not,  I  hope,  think  me  over-sensitive  in  asking  for  this 
explanation.  Believe  me,  yours  affectionately, 

^  H.  E.  M. 

My  dear  Archbishop  Manning  [Mr.  Gladstone  answered],  it 
did,  I  confess,  seem  to  me  an  astonishing  error  to  state  in  public 
that  a  friendship  had  not  been  overcast  for  forty-five  years  until 
now,  which  your  letter  declares  has  been  suspended  as  to  all 
action  for  twelve.  .  .  . 

I  wonder,  too,  at  your  forgetting  that  during  the  forty-five 
years  I  had  been  charged  by  you  with  doing  the  work  of  Anti- 
christ in  regard  to  the  Temporal  Power  of  the  Pope.  .  .  . 

Our  differences,  my  dear  Archbishop,  are  indeed  profound. 
We  refer  them,  I  suppose,  in  humble  silence  to  a  Higher  Power. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  IO9 

.  .  .  You  assured  mc  once  of  your  prayers  at  all  and  at  the  most 
solemn  time.  I  received  that  assurance  with  gratitude  and  still 
cherish  it.  As  and  when  they  move  upwards,  there  is  a  meeting- 
point  for  those  whom  a  chasm  separates  below.  I  remain  always, 
affectionately  yours, 

W.  E.  Gladstone. 

Speaking  of  this  correspondence  in  after  years,  Cardi- 
nal Manning  said — "From  the  way  in  which  Mr.  Glad- 
stone alluded  to  the  overcasting  of  our  friendship,  people 
might  have  thought  that  I  had  picked  his  pocket." 


VIII 

IN  1875  Manning's  labours  received  their  final  reward: 
he  was  made  a  Cardinal.  His  long  and  strange  career,  with 
its  high  hopes,  its  bitter  disappointments,  its  struggles, 
it  renunciations,  had  come  at  last  to  fruition  in  a  Prince- 
dom of  the  Church. 

Ask  in  faith  and  in  perfect  confidence  [he  himself  once  wrote], 
and  God  will  give  us  what  we  ask.  You  may  say,  "But  do  you 
mean  that  He  will  give  us  the  very  thing?"  That,  God  has  not 
said.  God  has  said  that  He  will  give  you  whatsoever  you  ask; 
but  the  form  in  which  it  will  come,  and  the  time  in  which  He 
will  give  it,  He  keeps  in  His  own  power.  Sometimes  our  prayers 
are  answered  in  the  very  things  which  we  put  from  us;  some- 
times it  may  be  a  chastisement,  or  a  loss,  or  a  visitation  against 
which  our  hearts  rise,  and  we  seem  to  see  that  God  has  not  only 
forgotten  us,  but  has  begun  to  deal  with  us  in  severity.  Those 
very  things  are  the  answers  to  our  prayers.  He  knows  what  we 
desire,  and  He  gives  us  the  things  which  we  ask;  but  in  the  form 
which  His  own  Divine  Wisdom  sees  to  be  best. 

There  was  one  to  whom  Manning's  elevation  would  no 
doubt  have  given  a  peculiar  satisfaction — his  old  friend 
Monsignor  Talbot.  But  this  was  not  to  be.  That  indus- 
trious worker  in  the  cause  of  Rome  had  been  removed 
some  years  previously  to  a  sequestered  Home  at  Passy, 
whose  padded  walls  were  impervious  to  the  rumours  of 
the  outer  world.  Pius  IX.  had  been  much  afflicted  by  this 
unfortunate  event;  he  had  not  been  able  to  resign  himself 
to  the  loss  of  his  secretary,  and  he  had  given  orders  that 


CARDINAL     MANNING  III 

Monsignor  Talbot's  apartment  in  the  Vatican  should  be 
preserved  precisely  as  he  had  left  it,  in  case  of  his  return. 
But  Monsignor  Talbot  never  returned.  Manning's  feelings 
upon  the  subject  appear  to  have  been  less  tender  than  the 
Pope's.  In  all  his  letters,  in  all  his  papers,  in  all  his  bio- 
graphical memoranda,  not  a  word  of  allusion  is  to  be 
found  to  the  misfortune,  nor  to  the  death,  of  the  most 
loyal  of  his  adherents.  Monsignor  Talbot's  name  dis- 
appears suddenly  and  for  ever — like  a  stone  cast  into  the 
waters. 

Manning  was  now  an  old  man,  and  his  outward  form 
had  assumed  that  appearance  of  austere  asceticism  which 
is,  perhaps,  the  one  thing  immediately  suggested  by  his 
name  to  the  ordinary  Englishman.  The  spare  and  stately 
form;  the  head,  massive,  emaciated,  terrible,  with  the 
great  nose,  the  glittering  eyes,  and  the  mouth  drawn  back 
and  compressed  into  the  grim  rigidities  of  age,  self-morti- 
fication, and  authority — such  is  the  vision  that  still  lin- 
gers in  the  public  mind — the  vision  which,  actual  and 
palpable  like  some  embodied  memory  of  the  Middle  Ages» 
used  to  pass  and  repass,  less  than  a  generation  since, 
through  the  streets  of  London.  For  the  activities  of  this 
extraordinary  figure  were  great  and  varied.  He  ruled  his 
diocese  with  the  despotic  zeal  of  a  born  administrator.  He 
threw  himself  into  social  work  of  every  kind;  he  organ- 
ised charities,  he  lectured  on  temperance.  He  delivered  in- 
num.erable  sermons;  he  produced  an  unending  series  of 
devotional  books.  And  he  brooked  no  brother  near  the 
throne:  Newman  languished  in  Birmingham;  and  even  the 
Jesuits  trembled  and  obeyed. 

Nor  was  it  only  among  his  own  community  that  his 
energy   and  his  experience  found  scope.  He  gradually 


XI2  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

came  to  play  an  important  part  in  public  affairs,  upon 
questions  of  labour,  poverty,  and  education.  He  sat  on 
Royal  Commissions,  and  corresponded  with  Cabinet  Min- 
isters. At  last  no  philanthropic  meeting  at  the  Guildhall 
was  considered  complete  without  the  presence  of  Cardinal 
Manning.  A  special  degree  of  precedence  was  accorded  to 
him.  Though  the  rank  of  a  Cardinal-Archbishop  is  offi- 
cially unknown  in  England,  his  name  appeared  in  public 
documents — as  a  token,  it  must  be  supposed,  of  personal 
consideration — above  the  names  of  peers  and  bishops,  and 
immediately  below  that  of  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

In  his  private  life  he  was  secluded.  The  ambiguities  of 
his  social  position  and  his  desire  to  maintain  intact  the 
peculiar  eminence  of  his  office  combined  to  hold  him 
aloof  from  the  ordinary  gatherings  of  society,  though  on 
the  rare  occasions  of  his  appearance  among  fashionable 
and  exalted  persons  he  carried  all  before  him.  His  favourite 
haunt  was  the  Athenseum  Club,  where  he  sat  scanning  the 
newspapers,  or  conversing  with  the  old  friends  of  former 
days.  He  was  a  member,  too,  of  that  distinguished  body, 
the  Metaphysical  Society,  which  met  once  a  month  during 
the  palmy  years  of  the  Seventies  to  discuss,  in  strict  pri- 
vacy, the  fundamental  problems  of  the  destiny  of  man. 
After  a  comfortable  dinner  at  the  Grosvenor  Hotel,  the 
Society,  which  included  Professor  Huxley  and  Professor 
Tyndall,  Mr.  John  Morley  and  Sir  James  Stephen,  the 
Duke  of  Argyll,  Lord  Tennyson,  and  Dean  Church,  would 
gather  round  to  hear  and  discuss  a  paper  read  by  one  of 
the  members  upon  such  questions  as  ''What  is  death?" 
"Is  God  unknowable?"  or  "The  Nature  of  the  Moral  Prin- 
ciple." Sometimes,  however,  the  speculations  of  the  society 
ranged  in  other  directions. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  II3 

I  think  the  paper  that  interested  me  most  of  all  that  were  ever 
read  at  our  meetings  [says  Sir  Mountstuart  Elphinstone  Grant- 
Duflf ]  was  one  on  "Wherein  consists  the  special  beauty  of  imper- 
fection and  decay?"  in  which  were  propounded  the  questions 
"Are  not  ruins  recognised  and  felt  to  be  more  beautiful  than 
perfect  structures?  Why  are  they  so?  Ought  they  to  be  so?" 

Unfortunately,  however,  the  answers  given  to  these  ques- 
tions by  the  Metaphysical  Society  have  not  been  recorded 
for  the  instruction  of  mankind. 

Manning  read  several  papers,  and  Professor  Huxley  and 
Mr.  John  Morley  listened  with  attention  while  he  ex- 
pressed his  views  upon  "The  Soul  before  and  after  Death," 
or  explained  why  it  is  "That  legitimate  Authority  is  an 
Evidence  of  Truth."  Yet,  somehow  or  other,  his  Eminence 
never  felt  quite  at  ease  in  these  assemblies;  he  was  more 
at  home  with  audiences  of  a  different  kind;- and  we  must 
look  in  other  directions  for  the  free  and  full  manifestation 
of  his  speculative  gifts.  In  a  series  of  lectures,  for  instance, 
delivered  in  1S61 — it  was  the  first  year  of  the  unifica- 
tion of  Italy — upon  "The  Present  Crisis  of  the  Holy  See, 
tested  by  Prophecy,"  we  catch  some  glimpses  of  the  kind 
of  problems  which  were  truly  congenial  to  his  mind. 

In  the  following  pages  [he  said]  I  have  endeavoured,  but  for 
so  great  a  subject  most  insufficiently,  to  show  that  what  is 
passing  in  our  times  is  the  prelude  of  the  anti-christian  period 
of  the  final  dethronement  of  Christendom,  and  of  the  restora- 
tion of  society  without  God  in  the  world.  My  intention  is  [he 
continued]  to  examine  the  present  relation  of  the  Church  to  the 
civil  powers  of  the  world,  by  the  light  of  a  prophecy  recorded 
by  St.  Paul. 

This  prophecy  (2  Thess.  ii  3  to  11)  is  concerned  with  the 
coming  of  Antichrist,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  lectures 


114  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

is  devoted  to  a  minute  examination  of  this  subject.  There 
is  no  passage  in  Scripture,  Manning  pointed  out,  relating 
to  the  coming  of  Christ  more  explicit  and  express  than 
those  foretelling  Antichrist;  it  therefore  behoved  the 
faithful  to  consider  the  matter  more  fully  than  they  are 
wont  to  do.  In  the  first  place,  Antichrist  is  a  person.  "To 
deny  the  personality  of  Antichrist  is  to  deny  the  plain 
testimony  of  Holy  Scripture."  And  we  must  remember 
that  "it  is  a  law  of  Holy  Scripture"  that  when  persona  are 
prophesied  of,  persons  appear."  Again,  there  was  every 
reason  to  believe  that  Antichrist,  when  he  did  appear, 
would  turn  out  to  be  a  Jew. 

Such  was  the  opinion  of  St.  Irenseus,  St.  Jerome,  and  of  the 
author  of  the  work  De  Consummatione  Mtmdi,  ascribed  to  St. 
Hippo'ytus,  and  of  a  writer  of  a  Commentary  on  the  Epistle  to 
the  Thessalonians,  ascribed  to  St.  Ambrose,  of  many  others,  who 
add,  that  he  will  be  of  the  tribe  of  Dan:  as,  for  instance,  St. 
Gregory  the  Great,  Theodoret,  Aretas  of  Csesarea,  and  many 
more.  Such  also  is  the  opinion  of  Bellarmine,  who  calls  it  uncer- 
tain. Lesrius  affirms  that  the  Fathers,  with  unanimous  consent, 
teach  as  undoubted  that  Antichrist  will  be  a  Jew.  Ribera  repeats 
the  same  opinion,  and  adds  that  Aretas,  St.  Bede,  Haymo,  St. 
Anselm,  and  Rupert  affirm  that  for  this  reason  the  tribe  of  Dan 
is  not  numbered  among  those  who  are  sealed  in  the  Apocalypse. 
.  .  .  Now  I  think  no  one  can  consider  the  dispersion  and  provi- 
dential preservation  of  the  Jews  among  all  the  nations  of  the 
world  and  the  indestructible  vitality  of  their  race,  without  be- 
lieving that  they  are  reserved  for  some  future  action  of  His 
Judgment  and  Grace.  And  this  is  foretold  again  and  again  in  the 
New  Testament. 

Our  Lord  [continued  Manning,  widening  the  sweep  of  his 
speculations]  has  said  of  these  latter  times:  "There  shall  rise  false 
Christs  and  false  prophets,  irisomuch  as  to  deceive  even  the 
elect";  that  is,  they  shall  not  be  deceived;  but  those  who  have 


CARDINAL     MANNING  II5 

lost  faith  in  the  Incarnation,  such  as  humanitarians,  rationaUsts, 
and  pantheists,  may  well  be  deceived  by  any  person  of  great 
pohtical  power  and  success,  who  should  restore  the  Jews  to  their 
own  land,  and  people  Jerusalem  once  more  with  the  sons  of  the 
Patriarchs.  And  there  is  nothing  in  the  political  aspect  of  the 
world  which  renders  such  a  combination  impossible;  indeed,  the 
state  of  Syria,  and  the  tide  of  European  diplomacy,  which  is  con- 
tinually moving  eastward,  render  such  an  event  within  a  reason- 
able probability. 

Then  Manning  threw  out  a  bold  suggestion.  "A  successful 
medium,"  he  said,  "might  well  pass  himself  off  by  his 
preternatural  endowments  as  the  promised  Messias." 

Manning  went  on  to  discuss  the  course  of  events  which 
would  lead  to  the  final  catastrophe.  But  this  subject,  he 
confessed, 

deals  with  agencies  so  transcendent  and  mysterious,  that  all  I 
shall  venture  to  do  will  be  to  sketch  in  outline  what  the  broad 
and  luminous  prophecies,  especially  of  the  Book  of  Daniel  and 
the  Apocalypse,  set  forth;  without  attempting  to  enter  into 
minute  details,  which  can  only  be  interpreted  by  the  event. 

While  applauding  his  modesty,  we  need  follow  Manning 
no  further  in  his  commentary  upon  those  broad  and  lumi- 
nous works;  except  to  observe  that  "the  apostasy  of  the 
City  of  Rome  from  the  Vicar  of  Christ  and  its  destruc- 
tion by  Antichrist"  was,  in  his  opinion,  certain.  Nor  was 
he  without  authority  for  this  belief.  For  it  was  held  by 
"Malvenda,  who  writes  expressly  on  the  subject,"  and 
who,  besides,  "states  as  the  opinion  of  Ribera,  Caspar 
Melus,  Viegas,  Suarez,  Bellarmine,  and  Bosius  that  Rome 
shall  apostatise  from  the  faith." 


IX 

The  death  of  Pius  IX.  brought  to  Manning  a  last  flatter- 
ing testimony  of  the  confidence  with  which  he  was 
regarded  at  the  court  of  Rome.  In  one  of  the  private  con- 
sultations preceding  the  Conclave,  a  Cardinal  suggested 
that  Manning  should  succeed  to  the  Papacy.  He  replied 
that  he  was  unfitted  for  the  position,  because  it  was  es- 
sential for  the  interests  of  the  Holy  See  that  the  next  Pope 
should  be  an  Italian.  The  suggestion  was  pressed,  but  Man- 
ning held  firm.  Thus  it  happened  that  the  Triple  Tiara 
seemed  to  come,  for  a  moment,  within  the  grasp  of  the 
late  Archdeacon  of  Chichester;  and  the  cautious  hand 
refrained. 

Leo  XIII.  was  elected,  and  there  was  a  great  change  in 
the  policy  of  the  Vatican.  Liberalism  became  the  order  of 
the  day.  And  now  at  last  the  opportunity  seemed  ripe 
for  an  act  which,  in  the  opinion  of  the  majority  of  Eng- 
lish Catholics,  had  long  been  due — the  bestowal  of  some 
mark  of  recognition  from  the  Holy  See  upon  the  labours 
and  the  sanctity  of  Father  Newman.  It  was  felt  that  a 
Cardinal's  Hat  was  the  one  fitting  reward  for  such  a  life, 
and  accordingly  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  representing  the 
Catholic  laity  of  England,  visited  Manning,  and  suggested 
that  he  should  forward  the  proposal  to  the  Vatican.  Man- 
ning agreed,  and  then  there  followed  a  curious  series  of 
incidents — the  last  encounter  in  the  jarring  lives  of  those 
two  men.  A  letter  was  drawn  up  by  Manning  for  the  eye 
of  the  Pope,  embodying  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's  proposal; 

ii6 


CARDINAL     MANNING  II7 

but  there  was  an  unaccountable  delay  in  the  transmission 
of  this  letter;  months  passed,  and  it  had  not  reached  the 
Holy  Father.  The  whole  matter  would,  perhaps,  have 
dropped  out  of  sight  and  been  forgotten,  in  a  way  which 
had  become  customary  when  honours  for  Newman  were 
concerned,  had  not  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  himself,  when 
he  was  next  in  Rome,  ventured  to  recommend  to  Leo  XIII. 
that  Dr.  Newman  should  be  made  a  Cardinal.  His  Holiness 
welcomed  the  proposal;  but,  he  said,  he  could  do  nothing 
until  he  knew  the  views  of  Cardinal  Manning.  There- 
upon the  Duke  of  Norfolk  wrote  to  Manning,  explaining 
what  had  occurred;  shortly  afterwards  Manning's  letter 
of  recommendation,  after  a  delay  of  six  months,  reached 
the  Pope,  and  the  offer  of  a  Cardinalate  was  immediately 
dispatched  to  Newman. 

But  the  affair  was  not  yet  over.  The  offer  had  been 
made,  would  it  be  accepted?  There  was  one  difficulty  in 
the  way.  Newman  was  now  an  infirm  old  man  of  seventy- 
eight;  and  it  is  a  rule  that  all  Cardinals  who  are  not  also 
diocesan  Bishops  or  Archbishops  reside,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  at  Rome.  The  change  v/ould  have  been  impossible 
for  one  of  his  years — for  one,  too,  whose  whole  life  was 
now  bound  up  with  the  Oratory  at  Birmingham.  But,  of 
course,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  His  Holiness  from 
making  an  exception  in  Newman's  case,  and  allowing  him 
to  end  his  days  in  England.  Yet  how  was  Newman  him- 
self to  suggest  this?  The  offer  of  the  Hat  had  come  to  him 
as  an  almost  miraculous  token  of  renewed  confidence,  of 
ultimate  reconciliation.  The  old,  long,  bitter  estrange- 
ment was  ended  at  last.  "The  cloud  is  lifted  from  me  for 
ever!"  he  exclaimed  when  the  news  reached  him.  It  would 
be  melancholy  indeed  if  the  cup  were  now  to  be  once 
more  dashed  from  his  lips  and  he  were  obliged  to  refuse 


Il8  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

the  signal  honour.  In  his  perplexity  he  went  to  the  Bishop 
of  Birmingham,  and  explained  the  whole  situation. 
The  Bishop  assured  him  that  all  would  be  well;  that  he 
himself  would  communicate  with  the  authorities,  and  put 
the  facts  of  the  case  before  them.  Accordingly,  while 
Newman  wrote  formally  refusing  the  Hat,  on  the  ground 
of  his  unwillingness  to  leave  the  Oratory,  the  Bishop 
wrote  two  letters  to  Manning,  one  official  and  one  pri- 
vate, in  which  the  following  passages  occurred: — 

Dr.  Newman  has  far  too  humble  and  delicate  a  mind  to  dream 
of  thinking  or  saying  anything  which  would  look  like  hinting 
at  any  kind  of  terms  with  the  Sovereign  Pontiff.  ...  I  think, 
however,  that  I  ought  to  express  my  own  sense  of  what  Dr, 
Newman's  dispositions  are,  and  that  it  will  be  expected  of  me. 
...  I  am  thoroughly  confident  that  nothing  stands  in  the  way 
of  his  most  grateful  acceptance,  except  what  he  tells  me  greatly 
distresses  him,  namely,  the  having  to  leave  the  Oratory  at  a 
critical  period  of  its  existence  and  the  impossibility  of  his 
beginning  a  new  life  at  his  advanced  age. 

And  in  his  private  letter  the  Bishop  said:     , 

Dr.  Newman  is  very  much  agec',  and  softened  with  age  and 
the  trials  he  has  had,  especially  the  loss  of  his  two  brethren 
St.  John  and  Caswell;  he  can  never  refer  to  these  losses  without 
weeping  and  becoming  speechless  for  the  time.  He  Is  very  much 
affected  by  the  Pope's  kindness ,  would,  I  know,  like  to  receive 
the  great  honour  offered  him,  but  feels  the  whole  difficulty 
at  his  age  of  changing  his  lifcj  or  having  to  leave  the  Oratory, 
■vi^hich  I  am  sure  he  could  not  do.  If  the  Holy  Father  thinks  well 
to  confer  on  him  the  dignity,  leaving  him  where  he  is,  I  know 
how  immensely  he  would  h(  gratified,  and  you  will  know  how 
generally  the  conferring  en.  him  the  Cardinalate  will  be  ap- 
plaxided. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  II9 

These  two  letters,  together  with  Newman's  refusal, 
reached  Manning  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  starting  for 
Rome.  After  he  had  left  England,  the  following  state- 
ment appeared  in  the  Times: — 

"Pope  Leo  XIII.  has  intimated  his  desire  to  raise  Dr. 
Newman  to  the  rank  of  Cardinal,  but  with  expressions  of 
deep  respect  for  the  Holy  See,  Dr.  Newman  has  excused 
himself  from  excepting  the  Purple." 

When  Newman's  eyes  fell  upon  this  announcement, 
he  realised  at  once  that  a  secret  and  powerful  force  was 
working  against  him.  He  trembled,  as  he  had  so  often 
trembled  before;  and  certainly  the  danger  was  not  imagi- 
nary. In  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  how  could  such  a 
paragraph  have  been  inserted  without  his  authority?  And 
consequently,  did  it  not  convey  to  the  world,  not  only  an 
absolute  refusal  which  he  had  never  intended,  but  a  wish 
on  his  part  to  emphasise  publicly  his  rejection  of  the  prof- 
fered honour?  Did  it  not  imply  that  he  had  lightly  de- 
clined a  proposal  for  which  in  reality  he  was  deeply 
thankful?  And  when  the  fatal  paragraph  was  read  in 
Rome,  might  it  not  actually  lead  to  the  offer  of  the  Cardi- 
nalate  being  finally  withheld? 

In  great  agitation,  Newman  appealed  to  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk. 

As  to  the  statement  [he  wrote]  of  my  refusing  a  Cardinal's  Hat, 
which  is  in  the  papers,  you  must  not  believe  it,  for  this  reason: — 
Of  course  it  implies  that  an  offer  has  been  made  me,  and 
I  have  sent  an  answer  to  it.  Now  I  have  ever  understood  that  it 
is  a  point  of  propriety  and  honour  to  consider  such  communica- 
tions sacred.  This  statement  therefore  cannot  come  fropi  me 
Nor  could  it  come  from  Rome,  for  it  was  made  public  before 
my  answer  got  to  Rome. 


120  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

It  could  only  come,  then,  from  someone  who  not  only  read 
my  letter,  but,  instead  of  leaving  to  the  Pope  to  interpret  it, 
took  upon  himself  to  put  an  interpretation  upon  it,  and  pub- 
lished that  interpretation  to  the  world, 

A  private  letter,  addressed  to  Roman  Authorities,  is  inter- 
preted on  its  way  and  published  in  the  English  papers.  How  is 
it  possible  that  any  one  can  have  done  this? 

The  crushing  Indictment  pointed  straight  at  Manning. 
And  It  was  true.  Manning  had  done  the  Impossible  deed. 
Knowing  what  he  did,  with  the  Bishop  of  Birmingham's 
two  letters  In  his  pocket,  he  had  put  It  about  that  New- 
man had  refused  the  Hat.  But  a  change  had  come  over  the 
spirit  of  the  Holy  See.  Things  were  not  as  they  had  once 
been:  Monslgnor  Talbot  was  at  Passy,  and  PIo  Nono  was — 
where?  The  Duke  of  Norfolk  Intervened  once  again ;  Man- 
ning was  profuse  In  his  apologies  for  having  misunder- 
stood Newman's  intentions,  and  hurried  to  the  Pope  to 
rectify  the  error.  Without  hesitation,  the  Sovereign  Pontiff 
relaxed  the  rule  of  Roman  residence,  and  Newman  be- 
came a  Cardinal. 

He  lived  to  enjoy  his  glory  for  more  than  ten  years.  Since 
he  rarely  left  the  Oratory,  and  since  Manning  never 
visited  Birmingham,  the  two  Cardinals  met  only  once  or 
twice.  After  one  of  these  occasions,  on  returning  to  the 
Oratory,  Cardinal  Newman  said,  "What  do  you  think 
Cardinal  Manning  did  to  me?  He  kissed  me!" 

On  Newman's  death,  Manning  delivered  a  funeral  ora- 
tion, which  opened  thus: — 

We  have  lost  our  greatest  witness  for  the  Faith,  and  we  are 
all  poorer  and  lower  by  the  loss. 

When  these  tidings  came  to  me,  my  first  thought  was  this. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  121 

in  what  way  can  I,  once  more,  show  my  love  and  veneration 
for  my  brother  and  friend  of  more  than  sixty  years? 

In  private,  however,  the  surviving  Cardinal's  tone  was 
apt  to  be  more  .  .  .  direct.  "Poor  Newman!"  he  once  ex- 
claimed in  a  moment  of  genisi'  expansion.  "Poor  Newman! 
He  was  a  great  hater!" 


In  that  gaunt  and  gloomy  building — more  like  a  barracks 
than  an  Episcopal  palace — Archbishop's  House,  West- 
minster, Manning's  existence  stretched  itself  out  into  an 
extreme  old  age.  As  his  years  increased,  his  activities,  if 
that  were  possible,  increased  too.  Meetings,  missions,  lec- 
tures, sermons,  articles,  interviews,  letters — such  things 
came  upon  him  in  redoubled  multitudes,  and  were  dis- 
patched with  an  unrelenting  zeal.  But  this  was  not  all; 
with  age,  he  seemed  to  acquire  what  was  almost  a  new 
fervour,  an  imaccustomed,  unexpected,  freeing  of  the 
spirit,  filling  him  with  preoccupations  which  he  had  hardly 
felt  before.  "They  say  I  am  ambitious,"  he  noted  in 
his  diary,  "but  do  I  rest  in  my  ambition?"  No,  assuredly 
he  did  not  rest;  but  he  worked  now  with  no  arriere  pensee 
for  the  greater  glory  of  God.  A  kind  of  frenzy  fell  upon 
him.  Poverty,  drunkenness,  vice,  all  the  horrors  and  ter- 
rors of  our  civilisation,  seized  upon  his  mind,  and  urged 
him  forward  to  new  fields  of  action  and  new  fields  of 
thought.  The  temper  of  his  soul  assumed  almost  a  revolu- 
tionary cast.  "I  am  a  Mosaic  Radical,"  he  exclaimed;  and, 
indeed,  in  the  exaltation  of  his  energies,  the  incoherence  of 
his  conceptions,  the  democratic  urgency  of  his  desires, 
combined  with  his  awe-inspiring  aspect  and  his  venerable 
age,  it  was  easy  enough  to  trace  the  mingled  qualities  of  the 
patriarch,  the  prophet,  and  the  demagogue.  As,  in  his 
soiled  and  shabby  garments,  the  old  man  harangued  the 
crowds  of  Bermondsey  or  Peckham  upon  the  virtues  of 


CARDINAL     MANNING  I23 

Temperance,  assuring  them,  with  all  the  passion  of  con- 
viction, as  a  final  argument,  that  the  majority  of  the 
Apostles  were  total  abstainers,  this  Prince  of  the  Church 
might  have  passed  as  a  leader  of  the  Salvation  Army. 
His  popularity  was  immense,  reaching  its  height  during 
the  great  Dock  Strikes  of  1889,  when  after  the  victory  of 
the  men  was  assured,  Manning  was  able,  by  his  persuasive 
eloquence  and  the  weight  of  his  character,  to  prevent  its 
being  carried  to  excess.  After  other  conciliators — among 
whom  was  the  Bishop  of  London — had  given  up  the  task 
in  disgust,  the  octogenarian  Cardinal  worked  on  with  in- 
defatigable resolution.  At  last,  late  at  night,  in  the  schools 
in  Kirby  Street,  Bermondsey,  he  rose  to  address  the  strik- 
ers. An  enthusiastic  eye-witness  has  described  the  scene. 

Unaccustomed  tears  glistened  in  the  eyes  of  his  rough  and 
work-stained  hearers  as  the  Cardinal  raised  his  hand,  and 
solemnly  urged  them  not  to  prolong  one  moment  more  than 
they  could  help  the  perilous  uncertainty  and  the  sufferings  of 
their  wives  and  children.  Just  above  his  uplifted  hand  was  a 
figure  of  the  Madonna  and  Child;  and  some  among  the  men  tell 
how  a  sudden  light  seemed  to  swim  round  it  as  the  speaker 
pleaded  for  the  women  and  children.  When  he  sat  down  all 
in  the  room  knew  that  he  had  won  the  day,  and  that,  so  far 
as  the  Strike  Committee  was  concerned,  the  matter  was  at  an 
end. 

In  those  days,  there  were  strange  visitors  at  Archbishop's 
House.  Careful  priests  and  conscientious  secretaries  won- 
dered what  the  world  was  coming  to  when  they  saw  labour 
leaders  like  Mr.  John  Burns  and  Mr.  Ben  Tillett,and  land- 
reformers  like  Mr.  Henry  George,  being  Ushered  into  the 
presence  of  his  Eminence.  Even  the  notorious  Mr.  Stead 
appeared,  and  his  scandalous  paper  with  its  unspeakable 
revelations  lay  upon  the  Cardinal's  table.  This  proved  too 


124  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

much  for  one  of  the  faithful  tonsured  dependents  of  the 
place,  and  he  ventured  to  expostulate  with  his  master.  But 
he  never  did  so  again. 

When  the  guests  were  gone,  and  the  great  room  was 
empty,  the  old  man  would  draw  himself  nearer  to  the 
enormous  fire,  and  review  once  more,  for  the  thousandth 
time,  the  long  adventure  of  his  life.  He  would  bring  out 
his  diaries  and  his  memoranda,  he  would  rearrange  his 
notes,  he  would  turn  over  again  the  yellow  leaves  of  faded 
correspondences;  seizing  his  pen,  he  would  pour  out  his 
comments  and  reflections,  and  fill,  with  an  extraordinary 
solicitude,  page  after  page  with  elucidations,  explanations, 
justifications,  of  the  vanished  incidents  of  a  remote  past. 
He  would  snip  with  scissors  the  pages  of  ancient  journals, 
and  with  delicate  ecclesiastical  fingers  drop  unknown 
mysteries  into  the  flames. 

Sometimes  he  would  turn  to  the  four  red  folio  scrap- 
books  with  their  collection  of  newspaper  cuttings  con- 
cerning himself  over  a  period  of  thirty  years.  Then  the 
pale  cheeks  would  flush  and  the  close-drawn  lips  grow 
more  menacing  even  than  before.  "Stupid,  mulish  malice," 
he  would  note.  "Pure  lying — conscious,  deliberate  and 
designed."  "Suggestive  lying.  Personal  animosity  is  at 
the  bottom  of  this." 

And  then  he  would  suddenly  begin  to  doubt.  After  all, 
where  was  he?  What  had  he  accomplished?  Had  any  of 
it  been  worth  while?  Had  he  not  been  out  of  the  world 
all  his  life?  Out  of  the  world! 

Croker's  "Life  and  Letters,"  and  Hayward's  "Letters"  [he 
notes]  are  so  full  of  politics,  literature,  action,  events,  collision 
of  mind  with  mind,  and  that  with  such  a  multitude  of  men 
in  every  state  of  life,  that  when  I  look  back,  it  seems  as  if  I 
had  been  simply  useless. 


CARDINAL     MANNING  I25 

And  again,  "the  complete  isolation  and  exclusion  from 
the  official  life  of  England  in  which  I  have  lived,  makes 
me  feel  as  if  I  had  done  nothing."  He  struggled  to  console 
himself  with  the  reflexion  that  all  this  was  only  "the 
natural  order."  "If  the  natural  order  is  moved  by  the 
supernatural  order,  then  I  may  not  have  done  nothing. 
Fifty  years  of  witness  for  God  and  His  Truth,  I  hope,  has 
not  been  in  vain."  But  the  same  thoughts  recurred.  "In 
reading  Macaulay's  life  I  had  a  haunting  feeling  that  his 
had  been  a  life  of  public  utility  and  mine  a  vita  timbratilis, 
a  life  in  the  shade."  Ah!  it  was  God's  will.  "Mine  has  been 
a  life  of  fifty  years  out  of  the  world  as  Gladstone's  has  been 
in  it.The  work  of  his  life  in  this  world  is  manifest.  I  hope 
mine  may  be  in  the  next.  I  suppose  our  Lord  called  me 
out  of  the  world  because  He  saw  that  I  should  lose  my  soul 
in  it."  Clearly,  that  was  the  explanation. 

And  yet  he  remained  sufficiently  in  the  world  to  dis- 
charge with  absolute  efficiency  the  complex  government 
of  his  diocese  almost  up  to  the  last  moment  of  his  exist- 
ence. Though  his  bodily  strength  gradually  ebbed,  the 
vigour  of  his  mind  was  undismayed.  At  last,  supported 
by  cushions,  he  continued  by  means  of  a  dictated  corre- 
spondence to  exert  his  accustomed  rule.  Only  occasionally 
would  he  lay  aside  his  work,  to  plunge  into  the  yet  more 
necessary  duties  of  devotion.  Never  again  would  he 
preach;  never  again  would  he  put  into  practice  those  three 
salutary  rules  of  his  in  choosing  a  subject  for  a  sermon: 
"(i)  asking  God  to  guide  the  choice;  (2)  applying  the 
matter  to  myself;  ( 3 )  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  my 
head  and  heart  and  lips  in  honour  of  the  Sacred  Mouth"; 
but  he  could  still  pray;  he  could  turn  especially  to  the  Holy 
Ghost. 


126  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

A  very  simple  but  devout  person  [he  wrote  in  one  of  his  latest 
memoranda]  asked  me  why  in  my  first  volume  of  sermons  I 
said  so  little  about  the  Holy  Ghost.  I  was  not  aware  of  it;  but 
I  found  it  to  be  true.  I  at  once  resolved  that  I  would  make  a 
reparation  every  day  of  my  life  to  the  Holy  Ghost.  This  I  have 
never  failed  to  do  to  this  day.  To  this  I  owe  the  light  and  faith 
which  brought  me  into  the  true  fold.  I  bought  all  the  books 
I  could  about  the  Holy  Ghost.  I  worked  out  the  truth  about  His 
personality,  His  presence,  and  His  office.  This  made  me  under- 
stand the  last  paragraph  in  the  Apostles'  Creed  and  made  me 
a  Catholic  Christian. 

So  though  Death  came  slowly,  struggling  step  by  step 
with  that  bold  and  tenacious  spirit,  when  he  did  come  at 
last  the  Cardinal  was  ready.  Robed,  in  his  archiepiscopal 
vestments,  his  rochet,  his  girdle,  and  his  mozeta,  with  the 
scarlet  biretta  on  his  head,  and  the  pectoral  cross  upon 
his  breast,  he  made  his  solemn  Profession  of  Faith  in  the 
Holy  Roman  Church.  A  crowd  of  lesser  dignitaries, 
each  in  the  garments  of  his  oflEce,  attended  the  ceremonial. 
The  Bishop  of  Salford  held  up  the  Pontificale  and  the 
Bishop  of  Amycla  bore  the  wax  taper.  The  provost  of 
Westminster,  on  his  knees,  read  aloud  the  Profession  of 
Faith,  surrounded  by  the  Canons  of  the  Diocese.  To- 
wards those  who  gathered  about  him  the  dying  man  was 
still  able  to  show  some  signs  of  recognition,  and  even, 
perhaps,  of  affection;  yet  it  seemed  that  his  chief  pre- 
occupation, up  to  the  very  end,  was  with  his  obedience 
to  the  rules  prescribed  by  the  Divine  Authority.  *T  am 
glad  to  have  been  able  to  do  everything  in  due  order," 
were  among  his  last  words.  "Si  fort  qu'on  soit,"  says  one 
of  the  profoundest  of  the  observers  of  the  human  heart, 
"on  peut  eprouver  le  besoin  de  s'incliner  devant  quelqu'un 


CARDINAL     MANNING  I27 

ou  quelque  chose.  S'incliner  devant  Dieu,  c'est  toujours  le 
moins  humiliant." 

Manning  died  on  January  14,  1892,  in  the  eighty-fifth 
year  of  his  age.  A  few  days  later  Mr.  Gladstone  took 
occasion,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  to  refer  to  his  relations 
with  the  late  Cardinal.  Manning's  conversion  was,  he 
said, 

altogether  the  severest  blow  that  ever  befell  me.  In  a  late  letter 
the  Cardinal  termed  it  a  quarrel,  but  in  my  reply  I  told  him 
it  was  not  a  quarrel,  but  a  death;  and  that  was  the  truth.  Since 
then  there  have  been  vicissitudes.  But  I  am  quite  certain  that  to 
the  last  his  personal  feelings  never  changed;  and  I  believe  also 
that  he  kept  a  promise  made  in  1 8  5 1 ,  to  remember  me  before 
God  at  the  most  solemn  moments;  a  promise  which  I  greatly 
valued.  The  whole  subject  is  to  me  at  once  of  extreme  interest 
and  of  considerable  restraint. 

"His  reluctance  to  die,"  concluded  Mr.  Gladstone,  "may 
be  explained  by  an  intense  anxiety  to  complete  unfulfilled 
service." 

The  funeral  was  the  occasion  of  a  popular  demonstra- 
tion such  as  has  rarely  been  witnessed  in  the  streets  of 
London.  The  route  of  the  procession  was  lined  by  vast 
crowds  of  working  people,  whose  imaginations,  in  some 
instinctive  manner,  had  been  touched.  Many  who  had 
hardly  seen  him  declared  that  in  Cardinal  Manning  they 
had  lost  their  best  friend.  Was  it  the  magnetic  vigour  of 
the  dead  man's  spirit  that  moved  them?  Or  was  it  his 
valiant  disregard  of  common  custom  and  those  conven- 
tional reserves  and  poor  punctilios  which  are  wont  to  hem 
about  the  great?  Or  was  it  something  untameable  in  his 
glances  and  in  his  gestures?  Or  was  it,  perhaps,  the  mys- 
terious glamour  lingering  about  him  of  the  antique  or- 


128  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

ganisation  of  Rome?  For  whatever  cause,  the  mind  of 
the  people  had  been  impressed;  and  yet,  after  all,  the 
impression  was  more  acute  than  lasting.  The  Cardinal's 
memory  is  a  dim  thing  to-day.  And  he  who  descends  into 
the  crypt  of  that  Cathedral  which  Manning  never  lived 
to  see,  will  observe,  in  the  quiet  niche  with  the  sepulchral 
monument,  that  the  dust  lies  thick  on  the  strange,  the 
incongruous,  the  almost  impossible  object  which,  with  its 
elaboration  of  dependent  tassels,  hangs  down  from  the 
dim  vault  like  some  forlorn  and  forgotten  trophy — the 
Hat. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

E.  S.  Purcell,  Life  of  Cardinal  Manning. 
A.  W.  Hutton.  Cardinal  Manning. 

J,  E.  C.  Bodley.  Cardinal  Manning  and  Other  Essays. 

F.  W.  Cornish.  The  English  Church  in  the  Nineteenth  Century. 
Dean  Church.   The  Oxford  Movement. 

Sir  J.  T.  Coleridge.  Mejnoir  of  the  Rev.  John  Keble. 

Hurrell  Froude.  Remains. 

Cardinal  Newman.  Letters  and  Correspondence  in  the  English 
Church.  Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua. 

Wilfrid  "Ward.  Life  of  Cardinal  Newman.  W.  G.  Ward  and  the 
Oxford  Movement.  W.  G.  Ward  and  the  Catholic  Revival. 
Life  of  Cardinal  Wiseman. 

H.  P.  Liddon.  Life  of  E.  B.  Pnsey. 

Tracts  for  the  Times,  by  Members  of  the  University  of  Oxford. 

Lord  Morley.  Life  of  Gladstone. 

Lives  of  the  Saints,  edited  by  J.  H.  Newman. 

Herbert  Paul.  Life  of  J.  A.  Froude. 

Mark  Pattison.  Autobiography. 

T.  Mozley.  Letters  from  Rome  on  the  Occasion  of  the  (Ecu- 
menical Council. 

Lord  Acton.  Letters. 

H.  L.  Smith  and  V.  Nash.  The  Story  of  the  Dockers'  Strike. 


FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE 


FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE 

I 

Everyone  knows  the  popular  conception  of  Florence 
Nightingale.  The  saintly,  self-sacrificing  woman,  the 
delicate  maiden  of  high  degree  who  threw  aside  the 
pleasures  of  a  life  of  ease  to  succour  the  afflicted,  the  Lady 
with  the  Lamp,  gliding  through  the  horrors  of  the 
hospital  at  Scutari,  and  consecrating  with  the  radiance 
of  her  goodness  the  dying  soldier's  couch — the  vision  is 
familiar  to  all.  But  the  truth  was  different.  The  Miss 
Nightingale  of  fact  was  not  as  facile  fancy  painted  her. 
She  worked  in  another  fashion,  and  towards  another  end; 
she  moved  under  the  stress  of  an  impetus  which  finds 
no  place  in  the  popular  imagination.  A  Demon  possessed 
her.  Now  demons,  whatever  else  they  may  be,  are  full  of 
interest.  And  so  it  happens  that  in  the  real  Miss  Night- 
ingale there  was  more  that  was  interesting  than  in  the 
legendary  one;  there  was  also  less  that  was  agreeable. 

Her  family  was  extremely  well-to-do,  and  connected 
by  marriage  with  a  spreading  circle  of  other  well-to-do 
families.  There  was  a  large  country  house  in  Derbyshire; 
there  was  another  in  the  New  Forest;  there  were  May  fair 
rooms  for  the  London  season  and  all  its  finest  parties; 
there  were  tours  on  the  Continent  with  even  more  than 
the  usual  number  of  Italian  operas  and  of  glimpses  at  the 
celebrities  of  Paris.  Brought  up  among  such  advantages, 
it  was  only  natural  to  suppose  that  Florence  would  show 

131 


132  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

a  proper  appreciation  of  them  by  doing  her  duty  in  that 
state  of  life  unto  which  it  had  pleased  God  to  call  her — 
in  other  words,  by  marrying,  after  a  fitting  number  of 
dances  and  dinner-parties,  an  eligible  gentleman,  and  liv- 
ing happily  ever  afterwards.  Her  sister,  her  cousins,  all 
the  young  ladies  of  her  acquaintance,  were  either  getting 
ready  to  do  this  or  had  already  done  it.  It  was  incoticeiv- 
able  that  Florence  should  dream  of  anything  else;  yet 
dream  she  did.  Ah!  To  do  her  duty  in  that  state  of  hfe 
unto  which  it  had  pleased  God  to  call  her!  Assuredly  she 
would  not  be  behindhand  in  doing  her  duty;  but  unto 
what  state  of  life  had  it  pleased  God  to  call  her?  That  was 
the  question.  God's  calls  are  many,  and  they  are  strange. 
Unto  what  state  of  life  had  it  pleased  Him  to  call  Char- 
lotte Corday,  or  Elizabeth  of  Hungary?  "What  was  that 
secret  voice  in  her  ear,  if  it  was  not  a  call?  Why  had  she 
felt,  from  her  earliest  years,  those  mysterious  promptings 
towards  . . .  she  hardly  knew  what  but  certainly  towards 
something  very  different  from  anything  around  her? 
Why,  as  a  child  in  the  nursery,  when  her  sister  had  shown 
a  healthy  pleasure  in  tearing  her  dolls  to  pieces,  had  she 
shown  an  almost  morbid  one  in  sewing  them  up  again? 
Why  was  she  driven  now  to  minister  to  the  poor  in  their 
cottages,  to  watch  by  sick-beds,  to  put  her  dog's  wounded 
paw  into  elaborate  splints  as  if  it  was  a  human  being? 
Why  was  her  head  filled  with  queer  imaginations  of  the 
country  house  at  Embley  turned,  by  some  enchantment, 
into  a  hospital,  with  herself  as  matron  moving  about 
among  the  beds?  Why  was  even  her  vision  of  heaven  it- 
self filled  with  suffering  patients  to  whom  she  was  being 
useful?  So  she  dreamed  and  wondered,  and,  taking  out 
her  diary,  she  poured  into  it  the  agitations  of  her  soul. 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  133 

And  then  the  bell  rang,  and  it  was  time  to  go  and  dress 
for  dinner. 

As  the  years  passed,  a  restlessness  began  to  grow  upon 
her.  She  was  unhappy,  and  at  last  she  knew  it.  Mrs. 
Nightingale,  too,  began  to  notice  that  there  was  some- 
thing wrong.  It  was  very  odd;  what  could  be  the  matter 
with  dear  Flo?  Mr.  Nightingale  suggested  that  a  husband 
might  be  advisable;  but  the  curious  thing  was  that  she 
seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  husbands.  And  with  her 
attractions,  and  her  accomplishments,  too!  There  was 
nothing  in  the  world  to  prevent  her  making  a  really  bril- 
liant match.  But  no!  She  woojld  think  of  nothing  but 
how  to  satisfy  that  singular  craving  of  hers  to  be  doing 
something.  As  if  there  v/as  not  plenty  to  do  in  any  case, 
in  the  ordinary  way,  at  home.  There  was  the  china  to  look 
after,  and  there  was  her  father  to  be  read  to  after  dinner. 
Mrs.  Nightingale  could  not  understand  it;  and  then  one 
day  her  perplexity  was  changed  to  consternation  and 
alarm.  Florence  announced  an  extreme  desire  to  go  to 
Salisbury  Hospital  for  several  months  as  a  nurse;  and  she 
confessed  to  some  visionary  plan  of  eventually  setting  up 
in  a  house  of  her  own  in  a  neighbouring  village,  and  there 
founding  "something  like  a  Protestant  Sisterhood,  with- 
out vows,  for  women  of  educated  feelings."  The  whole 
scheme  was  summarily  brushed  aside  as  preposterous;  and 
Mrs.  Nightingale,  after  the  first  shock  of  terror,  was  able 
to  settle  down  again  more  or  less  comfortably  to  her 
embroidery.  But  Florence,  who  was  now  twenty-five  and 
felt  that  the  dream  of  her  life  had  been  shattered,  came 
near  to  desperation. 

And,  indeed,  the  difficulties  in  her  path  were  great.  For 
not  only  was  it  an  almost  unimaginable  thing  in  those 
days  for  a  woman  of  means  to  make  her  own  way  in  the 


134  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

world  and  to  live  in  independence,  but  the  particular  pro- 
fession for  which  Florence  was  clearly  marked  out  both 
by  her  instincts  and  her  capacities  was  at  that  time  a 
peculiarly   disreputable   one.   A   "nurse"  meant   then   a 
coarse  old  woman,  always  ignorant,  usually  dirty,  often 
brutal,  a  Mrs.  Gamp,  in  bunched-up  sordid  garments, 
tippling  at  the  brandy-bottle  or  indulging  in  worse  irregu- 
larities. The  nurses  in  the  hospitals  were  especially  no- 
torious for  immoral  conduct;  sobriety  almost  unknown 
among  them;  and  they  could  hardly  be  trusted  to  carry 
out  the  simplest  medical  duties.  Certainly,  things  have 
changed  since  those  days;  and  that  they  have  changed  is 
due,  far  more  than  to  any  other  human  being,  to  Miss 
Nightingale  herself.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  her 
parents  should  have  shuddered   at  the  notion  of  their 
daughter  devoting  her  life  to  such  an  occupation.  "It  was 
as  if,"  she  herself  said  afterwards,  "I  had  wanted  to  be 
a  kitchen-maid."  Yet  the  want,  absurd,  impracticable  as 
it  was,  not  only  remained  fixed  immovably  in  her  heart, 
but  grew  in  intensity  day  by  day.  Her  wretchedness 
deepened  into  a  morbid  melancholy.  Everything  about 
her  was  vile,  and  she  herself,  it  was  clear,  to  have  deserved 
such  misery,  was  even  viler  than  her  surroundings.  Yes, 
she  had  sinned — "standing  before  God's  judgment  seat." 
"No  one,"  she  declared,  "has  so  grieved  the  Holy  Spirit"; 
of  that  she  was  quite  certain.  It  was  in  vain  that  she 
prayed  to  be  delivered  from  vanity  and  hypocrisy,  and 
she  could  not  bear  to  smile  or  to  be  gay,  "because  she 
hated  God  to  hear  her  laugh,  as  if  she  had  not  repented 
of  her  sin." 

A  weaker  spirit  would  have  been  overwhelmed  by  the 
load  of  such  distresses — would  have  yielded  or  snapped. 
But  this   extraordinary  young  woman  held  firm,  and 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I35 

fought  her  way  to  victory.  With  an  amazing  persistency, 
during  the  eight  years  that  followed  her  rebuff  over  Sahs- 
bury  Hospital,  she  struggled  and  worked  and  planned. 
"While  superficially  she  was  carrying  on  the  life  of  a  bril- 
liant girl  in  high  society,  while  internally  she  was  a  prey 
to  the  tortures  of  regret  and  of  remorse,  she  yet  possessed 
the  energy  to  collect  the  knowledge  and  to  undergo  the 
experience  which  alone  could  enable  her  to  do  what  she 
had  determined  she  would  do  in  the  end.  In  secret  she 
devoured  the  reports  of  medical  commissions,  the  pam- 
phlets of  sanitary  authorities,  the  histories  of  hospitals 
and  homes.  She  spent  the  intervals  of  the  London  season 
in  ragged  schools  and  workhouses.  When  she  went  abroad 
with  her  family,  she  used  her  spare  time  so  well  that  there 
was  hardly  a  great  hospital  in  Europe  with  which  she  was 
not  acquainted,  hardly  a  great  city  whose  slums  she  had 
not  passed  through.  She  managed  to  spend  some  days  in  ? 
convent  school  in  Rome,  and  some  weeks  as  a  "Sceur  de 
Charite"  in  Paris.  Then,  while  her  mother  and  sister 
were  taking  the  waters  at  Carlsbad,  she  succeeded  in 
slipping  off  to  a  nursing  institution  at  Kaiserswerth, 
where  she  remained  for  more  than  three  months.  This 
was  the  critical  event  of  her  life.  The  experience  which 
she  gained  as  a  nurse  at  Kaiserswerth  formed  the  founda- 
tion of  all  her  future  action  and  finally  fixed  her  in  her 
career. 

But  one  other  trial  awaited  her.  The  allurements  of  the 
world  she  had  brushed  aside  with  disdain  and  loathing; 
she  had  resisted  the  subtler  temptation  which,  in  her 
weariness,  had  sometimes  come  upon  her,  of  devoting  her 
baffled  energies  to  art  or  literature;  the  last  ordeal  ap- 
peared in  the  shape  of  a  desirable  young  man.  Hitherto, 
her  lovers  had  been  nothing  to  her  but  an  added  burden 


1}6  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

and  a  mockery;  but  now — .  For  a  moment,  she  wavered. 
A  new  feeling  swept  over  her — a  feeHng  which  she  had 
never  known  before,  which  she  was  never  to  know  again. 
The  most  powerful  and  the  prof oundest  of  all  the  instincts 
of  humanity  laid  claim  upon  her.  But  it  rose  before  her, 
that  instinct,  arrayed — how  could  it  be  otherwise? — in 
the  inevitable  habiliments  of  a  Victorian  marriage;  and 
she  had  the  strength  to  stamp  it  underfoot. 

I  have  an  intellectual  nature  which  requires  satisfaction  [she 
noted],  and  that  would  find  it  in  him.  I  have  a  passional  nature 
which  requires  satisfaction,  and  that  would  find  it  in  him.  I 
have  a  moral,  an  active  nature  which  requires  satisfaction,  and 
that  would  not  find  it  in  his  life.  Sometimes  I  think  that  I  will 
satisfy  my  passional  nature  at  all  events.  .  .  . 

But  no,  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  it  could  not  be.  "To 
be  nailed  to  a  continuation  and  exaggeration  of  my  pres- 
ent life ...  to  put  it  out  of  my  power  ever  to  be  able  to 
seize  the  chance  of  forming  for  myself  a  true  and  rich 
life" — that  would  be  a  suicide.  She  made  her  choice,  and 
refused  v/hat  was  at  least  a  certain  happiness  for  a  vision- 
ary good  which  might  never  come  to  her  at  all.  And  so 
she  returned  to  her  old  life  of  waiting  and  bitterness. 

The  thoughts  and  feelings  that  I  have  now  [she  wrote]  I  can 
remember  since  I  was  six  years  old.  A  profession,  a  trade,  a  neces- 
sary occupation,  something  to  fill  and  employ  all  my  faculties, 
I  have  always  felt  essential  to  me,  I  have  always  longed  for.  The 
first  thought  I  can  remember,  and  the  last,  was  nursing  work; 
and  in  the  absence  of  this,  education  work,  but  more  the  educa- 
tion of  the  bad  than  of  the  young.  .  .  .  Everything  has  been  tried, 
foreign  travel,  kind  friends,  everything.  My  God!  What  is  to 
become  of  me? 

A  desirable  young  man?  Dust  and  ashes!  "What  was  there 
desirable  in  such  a  thing  as  that?  "In  my  thirty-first  year," 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I37 

she  noted  in  her  diary,  "I  see  nothing  desirable  but  death." 
Three  more  years  passed,  and  then  at  last  the  pressure 
of  time  told;  her  family  seemed  to  realize  that  she  was 
old  enough  and  strong  enough  to  have  her  way;  and  she 
became  the  superintendent  of  a  charitable  nursing  home 
in  Harley  Street.  She  had  gained  her  independence,  though 
it  was  in  a  meagre  sphere  enough;  and  her  mother  was  still 
not  quite  resigned:  surely  Florence  might  at  least  spend 
the  summer  in  the  country.  At  times,  indeed,  among  her 
intimates,  Mrs.  Nightingale  almost  wept.  "We  are  ducks," 
she  said  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "who  have  hatched  a  wild 
swan."  But  the  poor  lady  was  wrong;  it  was  not  a  swan 
that  they  had  hatched;  it  was  an  eagle. 


II 

Miss  Nightingale  had  been  a  year  in  her  nursing-home 
in  Harley  Street,  when  Fate  knocked  at  the  door.  The 
Crimean  War  broke  out;  the  battle  of  the  Alma  was 
fought;  and  the  terrible  condition  of  our  military  hos- 
pitals at  Scutari  began  to  be  known  in  England.  It  some- 
times happens  that  the  plans  of  Providence  are  a  little 
difficult  to  follow,  but  on  this  occasion  all  was  plain; 
there  was  a  perfect  co-ordination  of  events.  For  years 
Miss  Nightingale  had  been  getting  ready;  at  last  she  was 
prepared — experienced,  free,  mature,  yet  still  young — 
she  was  thirty-four — desirous  to  serve,  accustomed  to 
command:  at  that  precise  moment  the  desperate  need  of 
a  great  nation  came,  and  she  was  there  to  satisfy  it.  If  the 
war  had  fallen  a  few  years  earlier,  she  would  have  lacked 
the  knowledge,  perhaps  even  the  power,  for  such  a  work; 
a  few  years  later  and  she  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  fixed 
in  the  routine  of  some  absorbing  task,  and,  moreover,  she 
would  have  been  growing  old.  Nor  was  it  only  the  co- 
incidence of  Time  that  was  remarkable.  It  so  fell  out  that 
Sidney  Herbert  was  at  the  War  OflEice  and  in  the  Cabinet; 
and  SidneyHerbert  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Miss  Night- 
ingale's, convinced,  from  personal  experience  in  charitable 
work,  of  her  supreme  capacity.  After  such  premises,  it 
seems  hardly  more  than  a  matter  of  course  that  her  letter, 
in  which  she  offered  her  services  for  the  East,  and  Sidney 
Herbert's  letter,  in  which  he  asked  for  them,  should  ac- 
tually have  crossed  in  the  post.  Thus  it  all  happened,  with- 

138 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I39 

out  a  hitch.  The  appointment  was  made,  and  even  Mrs. 
Nightingale,  overawed  by  the  magnitude  of  the  venture, 
could  only  approve.  A  pair  of  faithful  friends  offered 
themselves  as  personal  attendants;  thirty-eight  nurses 
were  collected;  and  within  a  week  of  the  crossing  of  the 
letters  Miss  Nightingale,  amid  a  great  burst  of  popular 
enthusiasm,  left  for  Constantinople. 

Among  the  numerous  letters  which  she  received  on  her 
departure  was  one  from  Dr.  Manning,  who  at  that  time 
was  working  in  comparative  obscurity  as  a  Catholic  priest 
in  Bayswater.  "God  will  keep  you,"  he  wrote,  "and  my 
prayer  for  you  will  be  that  your  one  object  of  Worship, 
Pattern  of  Imitation,  and  source  of  consolation  and 
strength  may  be  the  Sacred  Heart  of  our  Divine  Lord." 

To  what  extent  Dr.  Manning's  prayer  was  answered 
must  remain  a  matter  of  doubt;  but  this  much  Is  certain, 
that,  if  ever  a  prayer  was  needed,  it  was  needed  then  for 
Florence  Nightingale.  For  dark  as  had  been  the  picture 
of  the  state  of  affairs  at  Scutari,  revealed  to  the  English 
public  in  the  despatches  of  the  Times  correspondent  and 
in  a  multitude  of  private  letters,  yet  the  reality  turned  out 
to  be  darker  still.  What  had  occurred  was,  in  brief,  the 
complete  break-down  of  our  medical  arrangements  at  the 
seat  of  war.  The  origins  of  this  awful  failure  were  complex 
and  manifold;  they  stretched  back  through  long  years  of 
peace  and  carelessness  in  England;  they  could  be  traced 
through  endless  ramifications  of  administrative  inca- 
pacity— from  the  inherent  faults  of  confused  systems  to 
the  petty  bunglings  of  minor  oflScials,  from  the  inevitable 
ignorance  of  Cabinet  Ministers  to  the  fatal  exactitudes  of 
narrow  routine.  In  the  inquiries  which  followed  it  was 
clearly  shown  that  the  evil  was  in  reality  that  worst  of 
all  evils — one  which  has  been  caused  by  nothing  In  par- 


140  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

ticular  and  for  which  no  one  in  particular  is  to  blame. 
The  whole  organisation  of  the  war  machine  was  incompe- 
tent and  out  of  date.  The  old  Duke  had  sat  for  a  generation 
at  the  Horse  Guards  repressing  innovations  with  an  iron 
hand.  There  was  an  extraordinary  overlapping  of  authori- 
ties, an  almost  incredible  shifting  of  responsibilities  to  and 
fro.  As  for  such  a  notion  as  the  creation  and  the  mainte- 
nance of  a  really  adequate  medical  service  for  the  army — 
in  that  atmosphere  of  aged  chaos,  how  could  it  have 
entered  anybody's  head?  Before  the  war,  the  easy-going 
oflScials  at  Westminster  were  naturally  persuaded  that  all 
was  well — or  at  least  as  well  as  could  be  expected;  when 
someone,  for  instance,  actually  had  the  temerity  to  sug- 
gest the  formation  of  a  corps  of  army  nurses,  he  was  at 
once  laughed  out  of  court.  When  the  war  had  begun, 
the  gallant  British  officers  in  control  of  affairs  had  other 
things  to  think  about  than  the  petty  details  of  medical 
organisation.  Who  had  bothered  with  such  trifles  in  the 
Peninsula?  And  surely,  on  that  occasion,  we  had  done 
pretty  well.  Thus  the  most  obvious  precautions  were 
neglected,  the  most  necessary  preparations  put  off  from 
day  to  day.  The  principal  medical  officer  of  the  army, 
Dr.  Hall,  was  summoned  from  India  at  a  moment's  no- 
tice, and  was  unable  to  visit  England  before  taking  up  his 
duties  at  the  front.  And  it  was  not  until  after  the  battle 
of  the  Alma,  when  we  had  been  at  war  for  many  months, 
that  we  acquired  hospital  accommodations  at  Scutari  for 
more  than  a  thousand  men.  Errors,  follies,  and  vices  on  the 
part  of  individuals  there  doubtless  were;  but,  in  the  gen- 
eral reckoning,  they  v/ere  of  small  account — insignificant 
symptoms  of  the  deep  disease  of  the  body  politic — the 
enormous  calamity  of  administrative  collapse. 

Miss  Nightingale  arrived  at  Scutari — a  suburb  of  Con- 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  141 

stantinople,  on  the  Asiatic  side  of  the  Bosphorus — on  No- 
vember 4th,   1854;  it  was  ten  days  after  the  battle  of 
Balaclava,  and  the  day  before  the  battle  of  Inkermanr 
The  organisation  of  the  hospitals,  which  had  already  given 
way  under  the  stress  of  the  battle  of  the  Alma,  was  now 
to  be  subjected  to  the  further  pressure  which  these  two 
desperate  and  bloody  engagernents  implied.  Great  detach- 
m.ents  of  wounded  were  already  beginning  to  pour  in. 
The  men,   after  receiving  such  summary  treatment  as 
could  be  given  them  at  the  smaller  hospitals  in  the  Crimea 
itself,  were  forthwith  shipped  in  batches  of  two  hundred 
across  the  Black  Sea  to  Scutari.  This  voyage  was  in  normal 
times  one  of  four  days  and  a  half;  but  the  times  were  no 
longer  normal,  and  now  the  transit  often  lasted  for  a 
fortnight  or  three  weeks.  It  received,  not  without  reason, 
the  name  of  "the  middle  passage."  Between,  and  sometimes 
on  the  decks,  the  wounded,  the  sick,  and  the  dying  were 
crowded — men  who  had  just  undergone  the  amputation 
of  limbs,  men  in  the  clutches  of  fever  or  of  frostbite,  men 
in  the  last  stages  of  dysentery  and  cholera — without  beds, 
sometimes  without  blankets,  often  hardly  clothed.  The 
one  or  two  surgeons  on  board  did  what  they  could;  but 
medical  stores  were  lacking,  and  the  only  form  of  nursing 
available  was  that  provided  by  a  handful  of  invalid  sol- 
diers, who  were  usually  themselves  prostrate  by  the  end 
of  the  voyage.  There  was  no  other  food  besides  the  ordinary 
salt  rations  of  ship  diet;  and  even  the  water  was  some- 
times so  stored  that  it  was  out  of  reach  of  the  weak.  For 
many  months,  the  average  of  deaths  during  these  voyages 
was  seventy-four  in  the  thousand;  the  corpses  were  shot 
out  into  the  waters;  and  who  shall  say  that  they  were  the 
most  unfortunate?  At  Scutari,  the  landing-stage,  con- 
structed with  all  the  perverseness  of  Oriental  ingenuity-. 


142  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

could  only  be  approached  with  great  difficulty,  and,  in 
rough  weather,  not  at  all.  "When  it  was  reached,  what  re- 
mained of  the  men  in  the  ships  had  first  to  be  disembarked, 
and  then  conveyed  up  a  steep  slope  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
to  the  nearest  of  the  hospitals.  The  most  serious  cases  might 
be  put  upon  stretchers — for  there  were  far  too  few  for 
all;  the  rest  were  carried  or  dragged  up  the  hill  by  such 
convalescent  soldiers  as  could  be  got  together,  who  were 
not  too  obviously  infirm  for  the  work.  At  last  the  journey 
was  accomplished;  slowly,  one  by  one,  living  or  dying, 
the  wounded  were  carried  up  into  the  hospital.  And  in  the 
hospital  what  did  they  fi.nd? 

Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi  ch'entrate:  the  delusive 
doors  bore  no  such  inscription;  and  yet  behind  them  Hell 
yawned.  Want,  neglect,  confusion,  misery — in  every 
shape  and  in  every  degree  of  intensity — filled  the  endless 
corridors  and  the  vast  apartments  of  the  gigantic  barrack- 
house,  which,  without  forethought  or  preparation,  had 
been  hurriedly  set  aside  as  the  chief  shelter  for  the  victims 
of  the  war.  The  very  building  itself  was  radically  defec- 
tive. Huge  sewers  underlay  it,  and  cess-pools  loaded  with 
filth  wafted  their  poison  into  the  upper  rooms.  The  floors 
were  in  so  rotten  a  condition  that  many  of  them  could 
not  be  scrubbed;  the  walls  were  thick  with  dirt;  incredible 
multitudes  of  vermin  swarmed  everywhere.  And,  enor- 
mous as  the  building  was,  it  was  yet  too  small.  It  contained 
four  miles  of  beds,  crushed  together  so  close  that  there 
was  but  just  room  to  pass  between  them.  Under  such 
conditions,  the  most  elaborate  system  of  ventilation  might 
well  have  been  at  fault;  but  here  there  was  no  ventilation. 
The  stench  was  indescribable.  "I  have  been  well  ac- 
quainted," said  Miss  Nightingale,  ''with  the  dwellings  of 
the  worst  parts  of  most  of  the  great  cities  in  Europe,  but 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  143 

have  never  been  in  any  atmosphere  which  I  could  com- 
pare with  that  of  the  Barrack  Hospital  at  night."  The 
structural  defects  were  equalled  by  the  deficiencies  in 
the  commonest  objects  of  hospital  use.  There  were  not 
enough  bedsteads;  the  sheets  were  of  canvas,  and  so  coarse 
that  the  wounded  men  recoiled  from  them,  begging  to  be 
left  in  their  blankets;  there  was  no  bedroom  furniture  of 
any  kind,  and  empty  beer-bottles  were  used  for  candle- 
sticks. There  were  no  basins,  no  towels,  no  soap,  no  brooms, 
no  mops,  no  trays,  no  plates;  there  were  neither  slippers 
nor  scissors,  neither  shoebrushes  nor  blacking;  ther^  were 
no  knives  or  forks  or  spoons.  The  supply  of  fuel  was  con- 
stantly deficient.  The  cooking  arrangements  were  pre- 
posterously inadequate,  and  the  laundry  was  a  farce.  As 
for  purely  medical  materials,  the  tale  was  no  better. 
Stretchers,  splints,  bandages — all  were  lacking;  and  so 
were  the  most  ordinary  drugs. 

To  replace  such  wants,  to  struggle  against  such  diffi- 
culties, there  was  a  handful  of  men  overburdened  by  the 
strain  of  ceaseless  work,  bound  down  by  the  traditions  of 
official  routine,  and  enfeebled  either  by  old  age  or  inexperi- 
ence or  sheer  incompetence.  They  had  proved  utterly  un- 
equal to  their  task.  The  principal  doctor  was  lost  in  the  im- 
becilities of  a  senile  optimism.  The  wretched  official  whose 
business  it  was  to  provide  for  the  wants  of  the  hospital 
was  tied  fast  hand  and  foot  by  red  tape.  A  few  of  the 
younger  doctors  struggled  valiantly,  but  what  could  they 
do?  Unprepared,  disorganised,  with  such  help  only  as  they 
could  find  among  the  miserable  band  of  convalescent 
soldiers  drafted  off  to  tend  their  sick  comrades,  they  were 
faced  with  disease,  mutilation,  and  death  in  all  their  most 
appalling  forms,  crowded  multitudinously  about  them  in 
an  ever-increasing  mass.  They  were  like  men  in  a  ship- 


144  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

wreck,  fighting,  not  for  safety,  but  for  the  next  moment's 
bare  existence — to  gain,  by  yet  another  frenzied  effort, 
some  brief  respite  from  the  waters  of  destruction. 

In  these  surroundings,  those  who  had  been  long  inured 
to  scenes  of  human  suffering — surgeons  with  a  world- 
wide knowledge  of  agonies,  soldiers  familiar  with  fields 
of  carnage,  missionaries  with  remembrances  of  famine  and 
of  Prague — yet  found  a  depth  of  horror  which  they  had 
never  known  before.  There  were  moments,  there  were 
places^  in  the  Barrack  Hospital  at  Scutari,  where  the 
strongest  hand  was  struck  with  trembling,  and  the  boldest 
eye  would  turn  away  its  gaze. 

Miss  Nightingale  came,  and  she,  at  any  rate,  in  that 
Inferno,  did  not  abandon  hope.  For  one  thing,  she  brought 
material  succour.  Before  she  left  London  she  had  con- 
sulted Dr.  Andrew  Smith,  the  head  of  the  Army  Medical 
Board,  as  to  whether  it  would  be  useful  to  take  out  stores 
of  any  kind  to  Scutari;  and  Dr.  Andrew  Smith  had  told 
her  that  "nothing  was  needed."  Even  Sidney  Herbert  had 
given  her  similar  assurances;  possibly,  owing  to  an  over- 
sight, there  might  have  been  some  delay  in  the  delivery 
of  the  medical  stores,  which,  he  said,  had  been  sent  out 
from  England  "in  profusion,"  but  "four  days  would  have 
remedied  this."  She  preferred  to  trust  her  own  instincts, 
and  at  Marseilles  purchased  a  large  quantity  of  miscel- 
laneous provisions,  which  were  of  the  utmost  use  at 
Scutari.  She  came,  too,  amply  provided  with  money — in 
all,  during  her  stay  in  the  East,  about  £7000  reached  her 
from  private  sources;  and,  in  addition,  she  was  able  to 
avail  herself  of  another  valuable  means  of  help.  At  the 
same  time  as  herself,  Mr.  Macdonald,  of  the  Times,  had 
arrived  at  Scutari,  charged  with  the  duty  of  administering 
the  large  sums  of  money  collected  through  the  agency  of 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I45 

that  newspaper  in  aid  of  the  sick  and  wounded;  and  Mr. 
Macdonald  had  the  sense  to  see  that  the  best  use  he  could 
make  of  the  Times  Fund  was  to  put  it  at  the  disposal  of 
Miss  Nightingale. 

I  cannot  conceive  [wrote  an  eye-witness],  as  I  now  calmly  look 
back  on  the  first  three  weeks  after  the  arrival  of  the  wounded 
from  Inkerman,  how  it  could  have  been  possible  to  have  avoided 
a  state  of  things  too  disastrous  to  contemplate,  had  not  Miss 
Nightingale  been  there,  with  the  means  placed  at  her  disposal 
by  Mr.  Macdonald. 

But  the  official  view  was  different.  "What!  "Was  the  public 
service  to  admit,  by  accepting  outside  charity,  that  it 
was  unable  to  discharge  its  own  duties  without  the  as- 
sistance of  private  and  irregular  benevolence?  Never! 
And  accordingly  when  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe,  our 
Ambassador  at  Constantinople,  was  asked  by  Mr.  Mac- 
donald to  indicate  how  the  Times  Fund  could  best  be  em- 
ployed, he  answered  that  there  was  indeed  one  object  to 
which  it  might  very  well  be  devoted — the  building  of  an 
English  Protestant  Church  at  Pera. 

Mr.  Macdonald  did  not  waste  further  time  with  Lord 
Stratford,  and  immediately  joined  forces  with  Miss  Night- 
ingale. But,  with  such  a  frame  of  mind  in  the  highest 
quarters,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  kind  of  disgust  and 
alarm  with  which  the  sudden  intrusion  of  a  band  of  ama- 
teurs and  females  m.ust  have  filled  the  minds  of  the  ordi- 
nary officers  and  the  ordinary  military  surgeon.  They 
could  not  understand  It;  what  had  women  to  do  with 
war?  Honest  Colonels  relieved  their  spleen  by  the  cracking 
of  heavy  jokes  about  "the  Bird";  while  poor  Dr.  Hall, 
a  rough  terrier  of  a  man,  who  had  worried  his  way  to 
the  top  of  his  profession,  was  struck  speechless  with  aston- 


14^  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

ishment,  and  at  last  observed  that  Miss  Nightingale's  ap- 
pointment was  extremely  droll. 

Her  position  was,  indeed,  an  official  one,  but  it  was 
hardly  the  easier  for  that.  In  the  hospitals  it  was  her  duty 
to  provide  the  services  of  herself  and  her  nurses  when  they 
were  asked  for  by  the  doctors,  and  not  until  then.  At  first 
some  of  the  surgeons  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  her, 
and,  though  she  was  welcomed  by  others,  the  majority 
were  hostile  and  suspicious.  But  gradually  she  gained 
ground.  Her  good  will  could  not  be  denied,  and  her  ca- 
pacity could  not  be  disregarded.  With  consummate  tact, 
with  all  the  gentleness  of  supreme  strength,  she  managed 
at  last  to  impose  her  personality  upon  the  susceptible, 
overwrought,  discouraged,  and  helpless  group  of  men  in 
authority  who  surrounded  her.  She  stood  firm;  she  was  a 
rock  in  the  angry  ocean;  with  her  alone  was  safety,  com- 
fort, life.  And  so  it  was  that  hope  dawned  at  Scutari.  The 
reign  of  chaos  and  old  night  began  to  dwindle;  order  came 
upon  the  scene,  and  common  sense,  and  forethought,  and 
decision,  radiating  out  from  the  little  room  off  the  great 
gallery  in  the  Barrack  Hospital  where,  day  and  night,  the 
Lady  Superintendent  was  at  her  task.  Progress  might  be 
slow,  but  it  was  sure.  The  first  sign  of  a  great  change  came 
with  the  appearance  of  some  of  those  necessary  objects 
with  which  the  hospitals  had  been  unprovided  for  months. 
The  sick  men  began  to  enjoy  the  use  of  towels  and  soap, 
knives  and  forks,  combs  and  tooth-brushes.  Dr.  Hall 
might  snort  when  he  heard  of  it,  asking,  with  a  growl, 
what  a  soldier  wanted  with  a  tooth-brush;  but  the  good 
work  went  on.  Eventually  the  whole  business  of  purvey «- 
ing  to  the  hospitals  was,  in  effect,  carried  out  by  Miss 
Nightingale.  She  alone,  it  seemed,  whatever  the  contin- 
gency, knew  where  to  lay  her  hands  on  what  was  wanted; 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I47 

she  alone  could  dispense  her  stores  with  readiness;  above 
all,  she  alone  possessed  the  art  of  circumventing  the  per- 
nicious influences  of  official  etiquette.  This  was  her  great- 
est enemy,  and  sometimes  even  she  was  baffled  by  it.  On 
one  occasion  27,000  shirts,  sent  out  at  her  instance  by  the 
Home  Government,  arrived,  were  landed,  and  were  only 
waiting  to  be  unpacked.  But  the  official  "Purveyor"  inter- 
vened; "he  could  not  unpack  them,"  he  said,  "without  a 
Board."  Miss  Nightingale  pleaded  in  vain;  the  sick  and 
wounded  lay  half -naked  shivering  for  want  of  clothing; 
and  three  weeks  elapsed  before  the  Board  released  the 
shirts.  A  little  later,  however,  on  a  similar  occasion,  Miss 
Nightingale  felt  that  she  could  assert  her  own  authority. 
She  ordered  a  Government  consignment  to  be  forcibly 
opened,  while  the  miserable  "Purveyor"  stood  by,  wring- 
ing his  hands  in  departmental  agony. 

Vast  quantities  of  valuable  stores  sent  from  England 
lay,  she  found,  engulfed  in  the  bottomless  abyss  of  the 
Turkish  Customs  House.  Other  ship-loads,  buried  be- 
neath munitions  of  war  destined  for  Balaclava,  passed 
Scutari  without  a  sign,  and  thus  hospital  materials  were 
sometimes  carried  to  and  fro  three  times  over  the  Black 
Sea,  before  they  reached  their  destination.  The  whole  sys- 
tem was  clearly  at  fault,  and  Miss  Nightingale  suggested 
to  the  home  authorities  that  a  Government  Store  House 
should  be  instituted  at  Scutari  for  the  reception  and  dis- 
tribution of  the  consignments.  Six  months  after  her  ar- 
rival this  was  done. 

In  the  meantime  she  had  reorganised  the  kitchens  and 
the  laundries  in  the  hospitals.  The  ill-cooked  hunks  of 
meat,  vilely  served  at  irregular  intervals,  which  had  hith- 
erto been  the  only  diet  for  the  sick  men,  were  replaced 
hy  punctual  meals,  well-prepared  and  appetising,  while 


1^8  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Strengthening  extra  foods — soups  and  wines,  and  jellies 
("preposterous  luxuries,"  snarled  Dr.  Hall) — were  dis- 
tributed to  those  who  needed  them.  One  thing,  however, 
she  could  not  efifect.  The  separation  of  the  bones  from  the 
meat  was  no  part  of  official  cookery:  the  rule  was  that  the 
food  must  be  divided  into  equal  portions,  and  if  some  of 
the  portions  were  all  bone — well,  every  man  must  take  his 
chance.  The  rule,  perhaps,  was  not  a  very  good  one;  but 
there  it  was.  "It  would  require  a  new  Regulation  of  the 
Service,"  she  was  told,  "to  bone  the  meat."  As  for  the 
washing  arrangements,  they  were  revolutionised.  Up  to 
the  time  of  Miss  Nightingale's  arrival  the  number  of 
shirts  which  the  authorities  had  succeeded  in  washing  was 
seven.  The  hospital  bedding,  she  found,  was  "washed"  in 
cold  water.  She  took  a  Turkish  house,  had  boilers  installed, 
and  employed  soldiers'  wives  to  do  the  laundry  work. 
The  expenses  were  defrayed  from  her  own  funds  and  that 
of  the  Times;  and  henceforward  the  sick  and  wounded 
had  the  comfort  of  clean  linen. 

Then  she  turned  her  attention  to  their  clothing.  Owing 
to  military  exigencies  the  greater  number  of  the  men 
had  abandoned  their  kits;  their  knapsacks  were  lost  for- 
ever; they  possessed  nothing  but  what  was  on  their  per- 
sons, and  that  was  usually  only  fit  for  speedy  destruction. 
The  "Purveyor,"  of  course,  pointed  out  that,  according 
to  the  regulations,  all  soldiers  should  bring  with  them  into 
hospital  an  adequate  supply  of  clothing,  and  he  declared 
that  it  was  no  business  of  his  to  make  good  their  defi- 
ciencies. Apparently,  it  was  the  business  of  Miss  Nightin- 
gale. She  procured  socks,  boots,  and  shirts  in  enormous 
quantities;  she  had  trousers  made,  she  rigged  up  dressing- 
gowns.  "The  fact  is,"  she  told  Sidney  Herbert,  "I  am  now 
clothing  the  British  Army." 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I49 

All  at  once,  word  came  from  the  Crimea  that  a  great 
new  contingent  of  sick  and  wounded  might  shortly  be 
expected.  Where  were  they  to  go?  Every  available  inch 
in  the  wards  was  occupied;  the  affair  was  serious  and  press- 
ing, and  the  authorities  stood  aghast.  There  were  some 
dilapidated  rooms  in  the  Barrack  Hospital,  unfit  for  hu- 
man habitation,  but  Miss  Nightingale  believed  that  if 
measures  were  promptly  taken  they  might  be  made  capable 
of  accommodating  several  hundred  beds.  One  of  the  doc- 
tors agreed  with  her;  the  rest  of  the  officials  were  irreso- 
lute: it  would  be  a  very  expensive  job,  they  said;  it  would 
involve  building;  and  who  could  take  the  responsibility? 
The  proper  course  was  that  a  representation  should  be 
made  to  the  Director-General  of  the  Army  Medical  De- 
partment in  London;  then  the  Director-General  would 
apply  to  the  Horse  Guards,  the  Horse  Guards  would  move 
the  Ordnance,  the  Ordnance  would  lay  the  matter  be- 
fore the  Treasury,  and  if  the  Treasury  gave  its  consent, 
the  work  might  be  correctly  carried  through,  several 
months  after  the  necessity  for  it  had  disappeared.  Miss 
Nightingale,  however,  had  made  up  her  mind,  and  she 
persuaded  Lord  Stratford — or  thought  she  had  persuaded 
him — to  give  his  sanction  to  the  required  expenditure.  A 
hundred  and  twenty-five  workmen  were  immediately 
engaged,  and  the  work  was  begun.  The  workmen  struck; 
whereupon  Lord  Stratford  washed  his  hands  of  the  whole 
business.  Miss  Nightingale  engaged  two  hundred  other 
workmen  on  her  own  authority,  and  paid  the  bill  out  of 
her  own  resources.  The  wards  were  ready  by  the  required 
date;  five  hundred  sick  men  were  received  in  them;  and 
all  the  utensils,  including  knives,  forks,  spoons,  cans  and 
towels,  were  supplied  by  Miss  Nightingale. 

This  remarkable  woman  was  in  truth  performing  the 


150  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

function  of  an  administrative  chief.  How  had  this  come 
about?  Was  she  not  in  reality  merely  a  nurse?  "Was  it  not 
her  duty  simply  to  tend  to  the  sick?  And  indeed,  was  it 
not  as  a  ministering  angel,  a  gentle  "lady  with  a  lamp" 
that  she  actually  impressed  the  minds  of  her  contempo- 
raries? No  doubt  that  was  so;  and  yet  it  is  no  less  certain 
that,  as  she  herself  said,  the  specific  business  of  nursing 
was  "the  least  important  of  the  functions  into  which  she 
had  been  forced."  It  was  clear  that  in  the  state  of  dis- 
organisation into  which  the  hospitals  at  Scutari  had 
fallen  the  most  pressing,  the  really  vital,  need  was  for 
something  more  than  nursing;  it  was  for  the  necessary 
elements  of  civilised  life — the  commonest  material  ob- 
jects, the  most  ordinary  cleanliness,  the  rudimentary 
habits  of  order  and  authority.  "Oh,  dear  Miss  Nightin- 
gale," said  one  of  her  party  as  they  were  approaching  Con- 
stantinople, "when  we  land,  let  there  be  no  delays,  let  us 
get  straight  to  nursing  the  poor  fellows!"  "The  strongest 
will  be  wanted  at  the  wash-tub,"  was  Miss  Nightingale's 
answer.  And  it  was  upon  the  wash-tub,  and  all  that  the 
wash-tub  stood  for,  that  she  expended  her  greatest  en- 
ergies. Yet  to  say  that  is  perhaps  to  say  too  much.  For  to 
those  who  watched  her  at  work  among  the  sick,  moving 
day  and  night  from  bed  to  bed,  with  that  unflinching 
courage,  with  that  indefatigable  vigilance,  it  seemed  as 
if  the  concentrated  force  of  an  undivided  and  unparal- 
leled devotion  could  hardly  suffice  for  that  portion  of  her 
task  alone.  Wherever,  in  those  vast  wards,  suffering  was 
at  its  worst  and  the  need  for  help  was  greatest,  there,  as 
if  by  magic,  was  Miss  Nightingale.  Her  superhuman 
equanimity  would,  at  the  moment  of  some  ghastly  opera- 
tion, nerve  the  victim  to  endure  and  almost  to  hope.  Her 
sympathy  would  assuage  the  pangs  of  dying  and  bring 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  IJI 

back  to  those  still  living  something  of  the  forgotten  charm 
of  life.  Over  and  over  again  her  untiring  efforts  rescued 
those  whom  the  surgeons  had  abandoned  as  beyond  the 
possibility  of  cure.  Her  mere  presence  brought  with  it  a 
strange  influence.  A  passionate  idolatry  spread  among  the 
men:  they  kissed  her  shadow  as  it  passed.  They  did  more. 
"Before  she  came,"  said  a  soldier,  "there  was  cussin'  and 
swearin',  but  after  that  it  was  as  'oly  as  a  church."  The 
most  cherished  privilege  of  the  fighting  man  was  aban- 
doned for  the  sake  of  Miss  Nightingale.  In  those  "lowest 
sinks  of  human  misery,"  as  she  herself  put  it,  she  never 
heard  the  use  of  one  expression  "which  could  distress  a 
gentlewoman." 

She  was  heroic;  and  these  were  the  humble  tributes  paid 
by  those  of  grosser  mould  to  that  high  quality.  Certainly, 
she  was  heroic.  Yet  her  heroism  was  not  of  that  simple  sort 
so  dear  to  the  readers  of  novels  and  the  compilers  of  hagi- 
ologies — the  romantic  sentimental  heroisrn  with  which 
mankind  loves  to  invest  its  chosen  darlings:  it  was  made 
of  sterner  stuff.  To  the  wounded  soldier  on  his  couch  of 
agony  she  might  well  appear  in  the  guise  of  a  gracious 
angel  of  mercy;  but  the  military  surgeons,  and  the  order- 
lies, and  her  own  nurses,  and  the  "Purveyor,"  and  Dr. 
Hall,  and  even  Lord  Stratford  himself  could  tell  a  dif- 
ferent story.  It  was  not  by  gentle  sweetness  and  womanly 
self-abnegation  that  she  had  brought  order  out  of  chaos 
in  the  Scutari  Hospitals,  that,  from  her  own  resources, 
she  had  clothed  the  British  Army,  that  she  had  spread 
her  dominion  over  the  serried  and  reluctant  powers  of  the 
official  world;  it  was  by  strict  method,  by  stern  discipline, 
by  rigid  attention  to  detail,  by  ceaseless  labour,  by  the 
fixed  determination  of  an  indomitable  will.  Beneath  her 
cool  and  calm  demeanour  lurked  fierce  and  passionate  fires. 


IJ2  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

As  she  passed  through  the  wards  in  her  plain  dress,  so  quiet, 
so  unassuming,  she  struck  the  casual  observer  simply  as 
the  pattern  of  a  perfect  lady;  but  the  keener  eye  perceived 
something  more  than  that — the  serenity  of  high  delibera- 
tion in  the  scope  of  the  capacious  brow,  the  sign  of  power 
m  the  dominating  curve  of  the  thin  nose,  and  the  traces 
of  a  harsh  and  dangerous  temper — something  peevish, 
something  mocking,  and  yet  something  precise — in  the 
small  and  delicate  mouth.  There  was  humour  in  the  face; 
but  the  curious  watcher  might  wonder  whether  it  was 
humour  of  a  very  pleasant  kind;  might  ask  himself,  even 
as  he  heard  the  laughter  and  marked  the  jokes  with  which 
she  cheered  the  spirits  of  her  patients,  what  sort  of  sar- 
donic merriment  this  same  lady  might  not  give  vent  to, 
in  the  privacy  of  her  chamber.  As  for  her  voice,  it  was  true 
of  it,  even  more  than  her  countenance,  that  it  "had  that 
in  it  one  must  fain  call  master."  Those  clear  tones  were  in 
no  need  of  emphasis:  "I  never  heard  her  raise  her  voice," 
said  one  of  her  companions.  Only,  when  she  had  spoken, 
it  seemed  as  if  nothing  could  follow  but  obedience.  Once, 
when  she  had  given  some  direction,  a  doctor  ventured  to 
remark  that  the  thing  could  not  be  done.  "But  it  must  be 
done',"  said  Miss  Nightingale.  A  chance  bystander,  who 
heard  the  words,  never  forgot  through  all  his  life  the  irre- 
sistible authority  of  them.  And  they  were  spoken  quietly 
— very  quietly  indeed. 

Late  at  night,  when  the  long  miles  of  beds  lay  wrapped 
in  darkness.  Miss  Nightingale  would  sit  at  work  in  her 
little  room,  over  her  correspondence.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  formidable  of  all  her  duties.  There  were  hundreds 
of  letters  to  be  written  to  the  friends  and  relations  of  sol- 
diers; there  was  the  enormous  mass  of  official  documents 
to  be  dealt  with;  there  were  her  own  private  letters  to 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  155 

be  answered;  and,  most  important  of  all,  there  was  the 
composition  of  her  long  and  confidential  reports  to  Sidney 
Herbert.  These  were  by  no  means  official  communica- 
tions. Her  soul,  pent  up  all  day  in  the  restraint  and  re- 
serve of  a  vast  responsibility,  now  at  last  poured  itself  out 
in  these  letters  with  all  its  natural  vehemence,  like  a  swol- 
len torrent  through  an  open  sluice.  Here,  at  least,  she  did 
not  mince  matters.  Here  she  painted  in  her  darkest  colours 
the  hideous  scenes  which  surrounded  her;  here  she  tore 
away  remorselessly  the  last  veils  still  shrouding  the  abomi- 
nable truth.  Then  she  would  fill  pages  with  recommenda- 
tions and  suggestions,  with  criticisms  of  the  minutest 
details  of  organisation,  with  elaborate  calculations  of 
contingencies,  with  exhaustive  analyses  and  statistical 
statements  piled  up  in  breathless  eagerness  one  on  top  of 
the  other.  And  then  her  pen,  in  the  virulence  of  its  volu- 
bility, would  rush  on  to  the  discussion  of  individuals,  to 
the  denunciation  of  an  incompetent  surgeon  or  the  ridicule 
of  a  self-sufficient  nurse.  Her  sarcasm  searched  the  ranks 
of  the  officials  with  the  deadly  and  unsparing  precision 
of  a  machine-gun.  Her  nicknames  were  terrible.  She  re- 
spected no  one:  Lord  Stratford,  Lord  Raglan,  Lady  Strat- 
ford, Dr.  Andrew  Smith,  Dr.  Hall,  the  Commissary- 
General,  the  Purveyor — she  fulminated  against  them  all. 
The  intolerable  futility  of  mankind  obsessed  her  like  a 
nightmare,  and  she  gnashed  her  teeth  against  it.  "I  do  well 
to  be  angry,"  was  the  burden  of  her  cry.  How  many  just 
men  were  there  at  Scutari?  How  many  who  cared  at  all 
for  the  sick,  or  had  done  anything  for  their  relief?  Were 
there  ten?  Were  there  five?  Was  there  even  one?  She  could 
not  be  sure. 

At  one  time,  during  several  weeks,  her  vituperations 
descended  upon  the  head  of  Sidney  Herbert  himself.  He 


154  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

had  misinterpreted  her  wishes,  he  had  traversed  her  posi- 
tive instructions,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  admitted  his 
error  and  apologised  in  abject  terms  that  he  was  allowed 
again  into  favour.  While  this  misunderstanding  was  at  its 
height  an  aristocratic  young  gentleman  arrived  at  Scutari 
with  a  recommendation  from  the  Minister.  He  had  come 
out  from  England  filled  with  a  romantic  desire  to  render 
homage  to  the  angelic  heroine  of  his  dreams.  He  had,  he 
said,  cast  aside  his  life  of  ease  and  luxury;  he  would  devote 
his  days  and  nights  to  the  service  of  that  gentle  lady;  he 
would  perform  the  most  menial  offices,  he  would  "fag" 
for  her,  he  would  be  her  footman — and  feel  requited  by 
a  single  smile.  A  single  smile,  indeed,  he  had,  but  it  was 
of  an  unexpected  kind.  Miss  Nightingale  at  first  refused 
to  see  him,  and  then,  when  she  consented,  believing  that 
he  was  an  emissary  sent  by  Sidney  Herbert  to  put  her  in 
the  wrong  over  their  dispute,  she  took  notes  of  her  con- 
versation v/ith  him,  and  insisted  on  his  signing  them  at  the 
end  of  it.  The  young  gentleman  returned  to  England  by 
the  next  ship. 

This  quarrel  with  Sidney  Herbert  was,  however,  an 
exceptional  incident.  Alike  by  him,  and  by  Lord  Panmure, 
his  successor  at  the  War  OflSce,  she  was  firmly  supported; 
and  the  fact  that  during  the  whole  of  her  stay  at  Scutari 
she  had  the  Home  Government  at  her  back,  was  her  trump 
card  in  her  dealings  with  the  hospital  authorities.  Nor  was 
it  only  the  Government  that  was  behind  her:  public 
opinion  in  England  early  recognised  the  high  importance 
of  her  mission,  and  its  enthusiastic  appreciation  of  her 
work  soon  reached  an  extraordinary  height.  The  Queen 
herself  was  deeply  moved.  She  made  repeated  inquiries 
as  to  the  welfare  of  Miss  Nightingale;  she  asked  to  see 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I55 

her  accounts  of  the  wounded,  and  made  her  the  inter- 
mediary between  the  throne  and  the  troops. 

Let  Mrs.  Herbert  know  [she  wrote  to  the  War  Minister]  that 
I  wish  Miss  Nightingale  and  the  ladies  would  tell  these  poor 
noble,  wounded,  and  sick  men  that  no  one  takes  a  warmer  inter- 
est or  feels  more  for  their  sufferings  or  admires  their  courage  and 
heroism  more  than  their  Queen.  Day  and  night  she  thinks  of  her 
beloved  troops.  So  does  the  Prince.  Beg  Mrs.  Herbert  to  com- 
municate these  last  words  to  those  ladies,  as  I  know  that  our 
sympathy  is  much  valued  by  these  noble  fellows. 

The  letter  was  read  aloud  in  the  wards  by  the  Chaplain. 
"It  is  a  very  feeling  letter,"  said  the  men. 

And  so  the  months  passed,  and  that  fell  winter  which 
had  begun  with  Inkerman  and  had  dragged  itself  out 
through  the  long  agony  of  the  investment  of  Sebastopol,, 
at  last  was  over.  In  May,  1855,  after  six  months  of  labour, 
Miss  Nightingale  could  look  with  something  like  satis- 
faction at  the  condition  of  the  Scutari  hospitals.  Had  they 
done  nothing  more  than  survive  the  terrible  strain  which 
had  been  put  upon  them,  it  would  have  been  a  matter  for 
congratulation;  but  they  had  done  much  more  than  that; 
they  had  marvellously  improved.  The  confusion  and  the 
pressure  in  the  wards  had  come  to  an  end ;  order  reigned  in 
them,  and  cleanliness;  the  supplies  were  bountiful  and 
prompt;  important  sanitary  works  had  been  carried  out. 
One  simple  comparison  of  figures  was  enough  to  reveal 
the  extraordinary  change:  the  rate  of  mortality  among 
the  cases  treated  had  fallen  from  42  per  cent,  to  22  per 
thousand.  But  still  the  indefatigable  lady  was  not  satisfied. 
The  main  problem  had  been  solved — the  physical  needs 
of  the  men  had  been  provided  for;  their  mental  and  spirit- 
ual needs  remained.  She  set  up  and  furnished  reading- 
rooms  and  recreation-rooms.  She  started  classes  and  lee- 


1^6  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

tures.  Officers  were  amazed  to  see  her  treating  their  men 
as  if  they  were  human  beings,  and  assured  her  that  she 
would  only  end  by  ''spoiling  the  brutes."  But  that  was  not 
Miss  Nightingale's  opinion,  and  she  was  justified.  The 
private  soldier  began  to  drink  less,  and  even — though  that 
seemed  impossible — to  save  his  pay.  Miss  Nightingale  be- 
came a  banker  for  the  army,  receiving  and  sending  home 
large  sums  of  money  every  month.  At  last,  reluctantly, 
the  Government  followed  suit,  and  established  machinery 
of  its  own  for  the  remission  of  money.  Lord  Panmure, 
however,  remained  sceptical;  "It  will  do  no  good,"  he  pro- 
nounced; "the  British  soldier  is  not  a  remitting  animal." 
But,  in  fact,  during  the  next  six  months,  £71,000  was 
sent  home. 

Amid  all  these  activities.  Miss  Nightingale  took  up  the 
further  task  of  inspecting  the  hospitals  in  the  Crimea 
itself.  The  labour  was  extreme,  and  the  conditions  of  life 
were  almost  intolerable.  She  spent  whole  days  in  the  saddle, 
or  was  driven  over  those  bleak  and  rocky  heights  in  a 
baggage  cart.  Sometimes  she  stood  for  hours  in  the  heavily 
falling  snow,  and  would  only  reach  her  hut  at  dead  of 
night  after  walking  for  miles  through  perilous  ravines. 
Her  powers  of  resistance  seemed  incredible,  but  at  last 
they  were  exhausted.  She  was  attacked  by  fever,  and  for  a 
moment  cam.e  very  near  to  death.  Yet  she  worked  on;  if 
she  could  not  move,  she  could  at  least  write;  and  write  she 
did  until  her  mind  had  left  her;  and  after  it  had  left  her,  in 
what  seemed  the  delirious  trance  of  death  itself,  she  still 
wrote.  When,  after  many  weeks,  she  was  strong  enough  to 
travel,  she  was  to  return  to  England,  but  she  utterly  re- 
fused. She  would  not  go  back,  she  said,  before  the  last  of 
the  soldiers  had  left  Scutari. 

This  happy  moment  had  almost  arrived,  when  suddenly 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  1 57 

the  smouldering  hostilities  of  the  medical  authorities  burst 
out  into  a  flame.  Dr.  Hall's  labours  had  been  rewarded  by 
a  K.C.B. — letters  which,  as  Miss  Nightingale  told  Sidney- 
Herbert,  she  could  only  suppose  to  mean  "Knight  of  the 
Crimean  Burial-grounds" — and  the  honour  had  turned 
his  head.  He  was  Sir  John,  and  he  would  be  thwarted  no 
longer.  Disputes  had  lately  arisen  between  Miss  Nightin- 
gale and  some  of  the  nurses  in  the  Crimean  hospitals.  The 
situation  had  been  embittered  by  rumours  of  religious  dis- 
sensions, for,  while  the  Crimean  nurses  were  Roman 
Catholics,  many  of  those  at  Scutari  were  suspected  of  a 
regrettable  propensity  towards  the  tenets  of  Dr.  Pusey. 
Miss  Nightingale  was  by  no  means  disturbed  by  these 
sectarian  differences,  but  any  suggestion  that  her  supreme 
authority  over  all  the  nurses  with  the  Army  was  in  doubt 
was  enough  to  rouse  her  to  fury;  and  it  appeared  that  Mrs. 
Bridgeman,  the  Reverend  Mother  in  the  Crimea,  had  ven- 
tured to  call  that  authority  in  question.  Sir  John  Hall 
thought  that  his  opportunity  had  come,  and  strongly  sup- 
ported Mrs.  Bridgeman — or,  as  Miss  Nightingale  preferred 
to  call  her,  the  "Reverend  Brickbat."  There  was  a  violent 
struggle;  Miss  Nightingale's  rage  was  terrible.  Dr.  Hall, 
she  declared,  was  doing  his  best  to  "root  her  out  of  the 
Crimea."  She  would  bear  it  no  longer;  the  War  Office 
was  playing  her  false;  there  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done 
— Sidney  Herbert  must  move  for  the  production  of  papers 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  so  that  the  public  might  be 
able  to  judge  between  her  and  her  enemies.  Sidney  Herbert 
with  great  difficulty  calmed  her  down.  Orders  were  im- 
mediately dispatched  putting  her  supremacy  beyond 
doubt,  and  the  Reverend  Brickbat  withdrew  from  the 
scene.  Sir  John,  however,  was  more  tenacious.  A  few  weeks 
later.  Miss  Nightingale  and  her  nurses  visited  the  Crimea 


Ij8  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

for  the  last  time,  and  the  brilliant  idea  occurred  to  him 
that  he  could  crush  her  by  a  very  simple  expedient — he 
would  starve  her  into  submission;  and  he  actually  ordered 
that  no  rations  of  any  kind  should  be  supplied  to  her.  He 
had  already  tried  this  plan  with  great  effect  upon  an  un- 
fortunate medical  man  whose  presence  in  the  Crimea  he 
had  considered  an  intrusion;  but  he  was  now  to  learn  that 
such  tricks  were  thrown  away  upon  Miss  Nightingale. 
With  extraordinary  foresight,  she  had  brought  with  her 
a  great  supply  of  food;  she  succeeded  in  obtaining  more  at 
her  own  expense  and  by  her  own  exertions;  and  thus  for 
ten  days,  in  that  inhospitable  country,  she  was  able  to  feed 
herself  and  twenty-four  nurses.  Eventually  the  military 
authorities  intervened  in  her  favour,  and  Sir  John  had  to 
confess  that  he  was  beaten. 

It  was  not  until  July,  1856 — four  months  after  the 
Declaration  of  Peace — that  Miss  Nightingale  left  Scutari 
for  England.  Her  reputation  was  now  enormous,  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  public  was  unbounded.  The  Royal  ap- 
probation was  expressed  by  the  gift  of  a  brooch,  accom- 
panied by  a  private  letter. 

You  are,  I  know,  well  aware  [wrote  Her  Majesty]  of  the  high 
sense  I  entertain  of  the  Christian  devotion  which  you  have  dis- 
played during  this  great  and  bloody  war,  and  I  need  hardly  re- 
peat to  you  how  warm  my  admiration  is  for  your  services,  which 
are  fully  equal  to  those  of  my  dear  and  brave  soldiers,  whose 
sufferings  you  have  had  the  privilege  of  alleviating  in  so  merci- 
ful a  manner.  I  am,  however,  anxious  of  marking  my  feelings 
in  a  manner  which  I  trust  will  be  agreeable  to  you,  and  there- 
fore send  you  with  this  letter  a  brooch,  the  form  and  emblems 
of  which  commemorate  your  great  and  blessed  work,  and  which 
I  hope  you  will  wear  as  a  mark  of  the  high  approbation  of  your 
Sovereign! 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I59 

"It  will  be  a  very  great  satisfaction  me,"  Her  Majesty 
added,  "to  make  the  acquaintance  of  one  who  has  set  so 
bright  an  example  to  our  sex." 

The  brooch,  which  was  designed  by  the  Prince  Consort, 
bore  a  St.  George's  cross  in  red  enamel,  and  the  Royal 
cypher  surmounted  by  diamonds.  The  whole  was  encircled 
by  the  inscription,  "Blessed  are  the  Merciful," 


Ill 

The  name  of  Florence  Nightingale  lives  in  the  memory 
of  the  world  by  virtue  of  the  lurid  and  heroic  adventure 
of  the  Crimea.  Had  she  died — as  she  nearly  did — upon  her 
return  to  England,  her  reputation  would  hardly  have  been 
different;  her  legend  would  have  come  down  to  us  almost 
as  we  know  it  to-day — that  gentle  vision  of  female  virtue 
which  first  took  shape  before  the  adoring  eyes  of  the  sick 
soldiers  at  Scutari.  Yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  lived  for 
more  than  half  a  century  after  the  Crimean  "War;  and 
during  the  greater  part  of  that  long  period  all  the  energy 
and  all  the  devotion  of  her  extraordinary  nature  were 
working  at  their  highest  pitch.  What  she  accomplished  in 
those  years  of  unknown  labour  could,  indeed,  hardly  have 
been  more  glorious  than  her  Crimean  triumphs;  but  it  was 
certainly  more  important.  The  true  history  was  far 
stranger  even  than  the  myth.  In  Miss  Nightingale's  own 
eyes  the  adventure  of  the  Crimea  was  a  mere  incident — 
scarcely  more  than  a  useful  stepping-stone  in  her  career. 
It  was  the  fulcrum  with  which  she  hoped  to  move  the 
world;  but  it  was  only  the  fulcrum.  For  more  than  a  gen- 
eration she  was  to  sit  in  secret,  working  her  lever:  and  her 
real  life  began  at  the  very  moment  when,  in  the  popular 
imagination,  it  had  ended. 

She  arrived  in  England  in  a  shattered  state  of  health. 
The  hardships  and  the  ceaseless  effort  of  the  last  two  years 
had  undermined  her  nervous  system;  her  heart  was  pro- 
nounced to  be  affected;  she  suffered  constantly  from 

1 60 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  l6t 

fainting-fits  and  terrible  attacks  of  utter  physical  pros- 
tration. The  doctors  declared  that  one  thing  alone  would 
save  her — a  complete  and  prolonged  rest.  But  that  was 
also  the  one  thing  with  which  she  would  have  nothing  to 
do.  She  had  never  been  in  the  habit  of  resting;  why  should 
she  begin  now?  Now,  when  her  opportunity  had  come  at 
last;  now,  when  the  iron  was  hot,  and  it  was  time  to  strike? 
No;  she  had  work  to  do;  and,  come  what  might,  she  would 
do  it.  The  doctors  protested  in  vain;  in  vain  her  family 
lamented  and  entreated,  in  vain  her  friends  pointed  out  to 
her  the  madness  of  such  a  course.  Madness?  Mad — pos- 
sessed— perhaps  she  was.  A  demoniac  frenzy  had  seized 
upon  her.  As  she  lay  upon  her  sofa,  gasping,  she  devoured 
blue-books,  dictated  letters,  and,  in  the  intervals  of  her 
palpitations,  cracked  her  febrile  jokes.  For  months  at  a 
stretch  she  never  left  her  bed.  For  years  she  was  in  daily 
expectation  of  Death.  But  she  would  not  rest.  At  this  rate, 
the  doctors  assured  her,  even  if  she  did  not  die,  she  would 
become  an  invalid  for  life.  She  could  not  help  that;  there 
was  the  work  to  be  done ;  and,  as  for  rest,  very  likely  she 
might  rest .  .  .  when  she  had  done  it. 

"Wherever  she  went,  in  London  or  in  the  country,  in  the 
hills  of  Derbyshire,  or  among  the  rhododendrons  at  Em- 
bley,  she  was  haunted  by  a  ghost.  It  was  the  spectre  of 
Scutari — the  hideous  vision  of  the  organisation  of  a  mili- 
tary hospital.  She  would  lay  that  phantom,  or  she  would 
perish.  The  whole  system  of  the  Army  Medical  Depart- 
ment, the  education  of  the  Medical  OflScer,  the  regula- 
tions of  hospital  procedure  .  .  .  rest?  How  could  she  rest 
while  these  things  were  as  they  were,  while,  if  the  like 
necessity  were  to  arise  again,  the  like  results  would  follow? 
And,  even  in  peace  and  at  home,  what  was  the  sanitary 
condition  of  the  Army?  The  mortality  in  the  barracks  was, 


l62  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

she  found,  nearly  double  the  mortaHty  in  civil  lite.  "You 
might  as  well  take  iioo  men  every  year  out  upon  Salis- 
bury Plain  and  shoot  them,"  she  said.  After  inspecting  the 
hospitals  at  Chatham,  she  smiled  grimly.  "Yes,  this  is  one 
more  symptom  of  the  system  which,  in  the  Crimea,  put 
to  death  16,000  men."  Scutari  had  given  her  knowledge; 
and  it  had  given  her  power  too:  her  enormous  reputation 
was  at  her  back — an  incalculable  force.  Other  works,  other 
duties,  might  lie  before  her;  but  the  most  urgent,  the  most 
obvious  of  all  was  to  look  to  the  health  of  the  Army. 

One  of  her  very  first  steps  was  to  take  advantage  of  the 
invitation  which  Queen  Victoria  had  sent  her  to  the 
Crimea,  together  with  the  commemorative  brooch. 
Within  a  few  weeks  of  her  return,  she  visited  Balmoral, 
and  had  several  interviews  both  with  the  Queen  and  the 
Prince  Consort.  "She  put  before  us,"  wrote  the  Prince  in 
his  diary,  "all  the  defects  of  our  present  military  hospital 
system  and  the  reforms  that  are  needed."  She  related  the 
whole  story  of  her  experiences  in  the  East;  and,  in  addi- 
tion, she  managed  to  have  some  long  and  confidential  talks 
with  His  Royal  Highness  on  metaphysics  and  religion. 
The  impression  which  she  created  was  excellent.  "Sie 
gefallt  uns  sehr,"  noted  the  Prince,  "ist  sehr  bescheiden." 
Her  Majesty's  comment  was  different — "Such  a  bead!  I 
wish  we  had  her  at  the  War  OflSce." 

But  Miss  Nightingale  was  not  at  the  War  Office,  and 
for  a  very  simple  reason:  she  was  a  woman.  Lord  Panmure, 
however,  was  (though  indeed  the  reason  for  that  was  not 
quite  so  simple)  ;  and  it  was  upon  Lord  Panmure  that  the 
issue  of  Miss  Nightingale's  efforts  for  reform  must  pri- 
marily depend.  That  burly  Scottish  nobleman  had  not,  in 
spite  of  his  most  earnest  endeavours,  had  a  very  easy  time 
of  it  as  Secretary  of  State  for  War.  He  had  come  into  office 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  165 

in  the  middle  of  the  Sebastopol  campaign,  and  had  felt 
himself  very  well  fitted  for  the  position,  since  he  had 
acquired  in  former  days  an  inside  knowledge  of  the  Army 
— as  a  Captain  of  Hussars.  It  was  this  inside  knowledge 
which  had  enabled  him  to  inform  Miss  Nightingale  with 
such  authority  that  "the  British  soldier  is  not  a  remitting 
animal."  And  perhaps  it  was  this  same  consciousness  of 
a  command  of  his  subject  which  had  Impelled  him  to  write 
a  dispatch  to  Lord  Raglan,  blandly  informing  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief in  the  Field  just  how  he  was  neglecting 
his  duties,  and  pointing  out  to  him  that  if  he  would  only 
try  he  really  might  do  a  little  better  next  time.  Lord 
Raglan's  reply,  calculated  as  It  was  to  make  Its  recipient 
sink  Into  the  earth,  did  not  quite  have  that  effect  upon 
Lord  Panmure,  who,  whatever  might  have  been  his  faults, 
had  never  been  accused  of  being  supersensitive.  However, 
he  allowed  the  matter  to  drop;  and  a  little  later  Lord 
Raglan  died — worn  out,  some  people  said,  by  work  and 
anxiety.  He  was  succeeded  by  an  excellent  red-nosed  old 
gentleman,  General  Simpson,  whom  nobody  had  ever 
heard  of,  and  who  took  Sebastopol.  But  Lord  Panmure's 
relations  with  him  were  hardly  more  satisfactory  than  his 
relations  with  Lord  Raglan;  for,  while  Lord  Raglan  had 
been  too  Independent,  poor  General  Simpson  erred  In  the 
opposite  direction,  perpetually  asked  advice,  suffered  from 
lumbago,  doubted,  his  nose  growing  daily  redder  and 
redder,  whether  he  was  fit  for  his  post,  and,  by  alternate 
mails,  sent  in  and  withdrew  his  resignation.  Then,  too, 
both  the  General  and  the  Minister  suffered  acutely  from 
that  distressingly  useful  new  invention,  the  electric  tele- 
graph. On  one  occasion  General  Simpson  felt  obliged 
actually  to  expostulate. 


I  ^4  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

I  think,  my  Lord  [he  wrote],  that  some  telegraphic  message* 
reach  us  that  cannot  be  sent  under  due  authority,  and  are  per- 
haps unknown  to  you,  although  under  the  protection  of  your 
Lordship's  name.  For  instance,  I  was  called  up  last  night,  a  dra- 
goon having  come  express  with  a  telegraphic  message  in  these 
words,  "Lord  Panmure  to  General  Simpson — Captain  Jarvis  has 
been  bitten  by  a  centipede.  How  is  he  now?" 

General  Simpson  might  have  put  up  with  this,  though 
to  be  sure  it  did  seem  "rather  too  trifling  an  affair  to  call 
for  a  dragoon  to  ride  a  couple  o£  miles  in  the  dark  that  he 
may  knock  up  the  Commander  of  the  Army  out  of  the 
very  small  allowance  of  sleep  permitted  him";  but  what 
was  really  more  than  he  could  bear  was  to  find  "upon 
sending  in  the  morning  another  mounted  dragoon  to  in- 
quire after  Captain  Jarvis,  four  miles  off,  that  he  never 
has  been  bitten  at  all,  but  has  had  a  boil,  from  which  he  is 
fast  recovering."  But  Lord  Panmure  had  troubles  of  his 
own.  His  favourite  nephew,  Captain  Dowbiggan,  was 
at  the  front,  and  to  one  of  his  telegrams  to  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief the  Minister  had  taken  occasion  to  ap- 
pend the  following  carefully  qualified  sentence — "I 
recommend  Dowbiggan  to  your  notice,  should  you  have 
a  vacancy,  and  if  he  is  fit."  Unfortunately,  in  those  early 
days,  it  was  left  to  the  discretion  of  the  telegraphist  to 
compress  the  messages  which  passed  through  his  hands; 
so  that  the  result  was  that  Lord  Panmure's  delicate  appeal 
reached  its  destination  in  the  laconic  form  of  "Look  after 
Dowb."  The  Headquarters  Staff  were  at  first  extremely 
puzzled;  they  were  at  last  extremely  amused.  The  story 
spread;  and  "Look  after  Dowb"  remained  for  many  years 
the  familiar  formula  for  describing  official  hints  in  favour 
of  deserving  nephews. 

And  now  that  all  this  was  over,  now  that  Sebastopol 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  l6 } 

had  been,  somehow  or  another,  taken;  now  that  peace  waS; 
somehow  or  another,  made;  now  that  the  troubles  of  office 
might  surely  be  expected  to  be  at  an  end  at  last — here 
was  Miss  Nightingale  breaking  in  upon  the  scene,  with 
her  talk  about  the  state  of  the  hospitals  and  the  necessity 
for  sanitary  reform.  It  was  most  irksome;  and  Lord  Pan- 
mure  almost  began  to  wish  that  he  was  engaged  upon 
some  more  congenial  occupation — discussing,  perhaps,  the 
constitution  of  the  Free  Church  of  Scotland — a  ques- 
tion in  which  he  was  profoundly  interested.  But  no;  duty 
was  paramount;  and  he  set  himself,  with  a  sigh  of  resigna- 
tion, to  the  task  of  doing  as  little  of  it  as  he  possibly  could. 
"The  Bison"  his  friends  called  him;  and  the  name  fitted 
both  his  physical  demeanour  and  his  habit  of  mind.  That 
large  low  head  seemed  to  have  been  created  for  butting 
rather  than  for  anything  else.  There  he  stood,  four-square 
and  menacing,  in  the  doorway  of  reform;  and  it  remained 
to  be  seen  whether  the  bulky  mass,  upon  whose  solid  hide 
even  the  barbed  arrows  of  Lord  Raglan's  scorn  had  made 
no  mark,  would  prove  amenable  to  the  pressure  of  Miss 
Nightingale.  Nor  was  he  alone  in  the  doorway.  There 
loomed  behind  him  the  whole  phalanx  of  professional 
conservatism,  the  stubborn  supporters  of  the  out-of-date, 
the  worshippers  and  the  victims  of  War  Office  routine. 
Among  these  it  was  only  natural  that  Dr.  Andrew  Smith, 
the  head  of  the  Army  Medical  Department,  should  have 
been  pre-eminent — Dr.  Andrew  Smith,  who  had  assured 
Miss  Nightingale  before  she  left  England  that  "nothing 
was  wanted  at  Scutari."  Such  were  her  opponents;  but 
she  too  was  not  without  allies.  She  had  gained  the  ear  of 
Royalty — which  was  something;  at  any  moment  that  she 
pleased  she  could  gain  the  ear  of  the  public — which  was 
a  great  deal.  She  had  a  host  of  admirers  and  friends;  an<^ 


l66  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

— to  say  nothing  of  her  personal  quaUties — ^her  knowl- 
edge, her  tenacity,  her  tact — she  possessed,  too,  one  ad- 
vantage which  then,  far  more  even  than  now,  carried  an 
immense  weight — she  belonged  to  the  highest  circle  of 
society.  She  moved  naturally  among  Peers  and  Cabinet 
Ministers — she  was  one  of  their  own  set;  and  in  those 
days  their  set  was  a  very  narrow  one.  What  kind  of  at- 
tention would  such  persons  have  paid  to  some  middle-class 
woman  with  whom  they  were  not  acquainted,  who  pos- 
sessed great  experience  of  army  nursing  and  had  decided 
views  upon  hospital  reform?  They  would  have  politely 
ignored  her;  but  it  was  impossible  to  ignore  Flo  Nightin- 
gale. When  she  spoke,  they  were  obliged  to  listen;  and, 
when  they  had  once  begun  to  do  that — what  might  not 
follow?  She  knew  her  power,  and  she  used  it.  She  sup- 
ported her  weightiest  minutes  with  familiar  witty  little 
notes.  The  Bison  began  to  look  grave.  It  might  be  difficult 
— it  might  be  damned  difficult — to  put  down  one's  head 
against  the  white  hand  of  a  lady. 

Of  Miss  Nightingale's  friends,  the  most  important  was 
Sidney  Herbert.  He  was  a  man  upon  whom  the  good 
fairies  seemed  to  have  showered,  as  he  lay  in  his  cradle, 
all  their  most  enviable  gifts.  Well  born,  handsome,  rich, 
the  master  of  Wilton — one  of  those  great  country-houses, 
clothed  with  the  glamour  of  a  historic  past,  which  are  the 
peculiar  glory  of  England — he  possessed,  besides  all  these 
advantages,  so  charming,  so  lively,  so  gentle  a  dispositioh 
that  no  one  who  had  once  come  near  him  could  ever  be 
his  enemy.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  man  of  whom  it  was  difficult 
not  to  say  that  he  was  a  perfect  English  gentleman.  For  his 
virtues  were  equal  even  to  his  good  fortune.  He  was  re- 
ligious— deeply  religious:  "I  am  more  and  more  convinced 
every  day,"  he  wrote,  when  he  had  been  for  some  years  a 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  1^7 

Cabinet  Minister,  "that  in  politics,  as  in  everything  else, 
nothing  can  be  right  which  is  not  in  accordance  with  the 
spirit  of  the  Gospel."  No  one  was  more  unselfish;  he  was 
charitable  and  benevolent  to  a  remarkable  degree;  and 
he  devoted  the  whole  of  his  life  with  an  unwavering  con- 
scientiousness to  the  public  service.  With  such  a  character, 
with  such  opportunities,  what  high  hopes  must  have 
danced  before  him,  what  radiant  visions  of  accomplished 
duties,  of  ever-increasing  usefulness,  of  beneficent  power, 
of  the  consciousness  of  disinterested  success!  Some  of  those 
hopes  and  visions  were,  indeed,  realised;  but,  in  the  end. 
the  career  of  Sidney  Herbert  seemed  to  show  that,  with 
all  their  generosity,  there  was  some  gift  or  other — what 
was  it? — some  essential  gift — which  the  good  fairies  had 
withheld,  and  that  even  the  qualities  of  a  perfect  English 
gentleman  may  be  no  safeguard  against  anguish,  humilia- 
tion, and  defeat. 

That  career  would  certainly  have  been  very  different  if 
he  had  never  known  Miss  Nightingale.  The  alliance  be- 
tween them,  which  had  begun  with  her  appointment  to 
Scutari,  which  had  grown  closer  and  closer  while  the  war 
lasted,  developed,  after  her  return,  into  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  of  friendships.  It  was  the  friendship  of 
a  man  and  a  woman  intimately  bound  together  by  their 
devotion  to  a  public  cause;  mutual  affection,  of  course, 
played  a  part  in  it,  but  it  was  an  incidental  part;  the  whole 
soul  of  the  relationship  was  a  community  of  work.  Per- 
haps out  of  England  such  an  intimacy  could  hardly  have 
existed — an  intimacy  so  utterly  untinctured  not  only  by 
passion  itself  but  by  the  suspicion  of  it.  For  years  Sidney 
Herbert  saw  Miss  Nightingale  alm.ost  daily,  for  long  hours 
together,  corresponding  with  her  incessantly  when  they 
were  apart;  and  the  tongue  of  scandal  was  silent;  and  one 


1^8  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

of  the  most  devoted  of  her  admirers  was  his  wife.  But 
what  made  the  connection  still  more  remarkable  was  the 
way  in  which  the  parts  that  were  played  in  it  were  divided 
between  the  two.  The  man  who  acts,  decides,  and  achieves; 
the  woman  who  encourages,  applauds,  and — from  a  dis- 
tance— inspires: — the  combination  is  common  enough; 
but  Miss  Nightingale  was  neither  an  Aspasia  nor  an  Egeria. 
In  her  case  it  is  almost  true  to  say  that  the  roles  were  re- 
versed; thj  qualities  of  pliancy  and  sympathy  fell  to  the 
man,  those  of  command  and  initiative  to  the  woman. 
Tliere  was  one  thing  only  which  Miss  Nightingale  lacked 
In  her  equipment  for  public  life;  she  had  not — she  never 
could  have — the  public  power  and  authority  which  be- 
long to  the  successful  politician.  That  power  and  authority 
Sidney  Herbert  possessed;  the  fact  was  obvious,  and  the 
conclusion  no  less  so:  it  was  through  the  man  that  the 
woman  must  work  her  will.  She  took  hold  of  him,  taught 
him,  shaped  him,  absorbed  him,  dominated  him  through 
and  through.  He  did  not  resist — he  did  not  wish  to  resist; 
his  natural  inclination  lay  along  the  same  path  as  hers; 
only  that  terrific  personality  swept  him  forward  at  her 
own  fierce  pace  and  with  her  own  relentless  stride.  Swept 
him — where  to?  Ah!  Why  had  he  ever  known  Miss  Night- 
ingale? If  Lord  Panmure  was  a  bison,  Sidney  Herbert,  no 
doubt,  was  a  stag — a  comely,  gallant  creature  springing 
through  the  forest;  but  the  forest  is  a  dangerous  place. 
One  has  the  image  of  those  wide  eyes  fascinated  suddenly 
by  something  feline,  something  strong;  there  is  a  pause; 
and  then   the  tigress   has   her   claws   in   the    quivering 

haunches;  and  then ! 

Besides  Sidney  Herbert,  she  had  other  friends  who,  in 
A  more  restricted  sphere,  were  hardly  less  essential  to  her. 
If,  in  her  condition  of  bodily  collapse,  she  were  to  accom- 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  169 

plish  what  she  was  determined  that  she  should  accomplish, 
the  attentions  and  the  services  of  others  would  be  abso- 
lutely indispensable.  Helpers  and  servers  she  must  have; 
and  accordingly  there  was  soon  formed  about  her  a  little 
group  of  devoted  disciples  upon  whose  affections  and 
energies  she  could  implicitly  rely.  Devoted,  indeed,  these 
disciples  were,  in  no  ordinary  sense  of  the  term;  for  cer- 
tainly she  was  no  light  task-mistress,  and  he  who  set  out 
to  be  of  use  to  Miss  Nightingale  was  apt  to  find,  before 
he  had  gone  very  far,  that  he  was  in  truth  being  made 
use  of  in  good  earnest — to  the  very  limit  of  his  endurance 
and  his  capacity.  Perhaps,  even  beyond  those  limits;  why 
not?  Was  she  asking  of  others  more  than  she  was  giving 
herself?  Let  them  look  at  her  lying  there  pale  and  breath- 
less on  the  couch;  could  it  be  said  that  she  spared  herself? 
Why,  then,  should  she  spare  others?  And  it  was  not  for 
her  own  sake  that  she  made  these  claims.  For  her  own  sake, 
indeed!  No!  They  all  knew  it!  it  was  for  the  sake  of  the 
work.  And  so  the  little  band,  bound  body  and  soul  in  that 
strange  servitude,  laboured  on  ungrudgingly.  Among  the 
most  faithful  was  her  "Aunt  Mai,"  her  father's  sister,  who 
from  the  earliest  days  had  stood  beside  her,  who  had  helped 
her  to  escape  from  the  thraldom  of  family  life,  who  had 
been  with  her  at  Scutari,  and  who  now  acted  almost  the 
part  of  mother  to  her,  watching  over  her  with  infinite  care 
in  all  the  movements  and  uncertainties  which  her  state 
of  health  involved.  Another  constant  attendant  was  her 
brother-in-law.    Sir   Harry   Verney,    whom   she   found 
particularly  valuable  in  parliamentary  affairs.    Arthur 
Clough,  the  poet,  also  a  connection  by  marriage,  she  used 
in  other  ways.  Ever  since  he  had  lost  his  faith  at  the  time 
of  the  Oxford  Movement,  Clough  had  passed  his  life  in 
a  condition  of  considerable  uneasiness,  which  was  increased 


IJO  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

rather  than  diminished  by  the  practice  of  poetry.  Unable 
to  decide  upon  the  purpose  of  an  existence  whose  savour 
had  fled  together  with  his  beHef  in  the  Resurrection,  his 
spirits  lowered  still  further  by  ill-health,  and  his  income 
not  all  that  it  should  be,  he  had  determined  to  seek  the 
solution  of  his  difficulties  in  the  United  States  of  America. 
But,  even  there,  the  solution  was  not  forthcoming;  and 
when,  a  little  later,  he  was  oflfered  a  post  in  a  government 
department  at  home,  he  accepted  it,  came  to  live  in  Lon- 
don, and  immediately  fell  under  the  influence  of  Miss 
Nightingale.  Though  the  purpose  of  existence  might  be 
still  uncertain  and  its  nature  still  unsavoury,  here,  at  any 
rate,  under  the  eye  of  this  inspired  woman,  was  something 
real,  something  earnest:  his  only  doubt  was — could  he  be 
of  any  use?  Certainly  he  could.  There  were  a  great  num- 
ber of  miscellaneous  little  jobs  which  there  was  nobody 
handy  to  do.  For  instance,  when  Miss  Nightingale  was 
travelling,  there  were  the  railway-tickets  to  be  taken;  and 
there  were  proof-sheets  to  be  corrected;  and  then  there 
were  parcels  to  be  done  up  in  brown  paper,  and  carried 
to  the  post.  Certainly  he  could  be  useful.  And  so,  upon 
such  occupations  as  these,  Arthur  Clough  was  set  to  work. 
"This  that  I  see,  is  not  all,"  he  comforted  himself  by  re- 
flecting, "and  this  that  I  do  is  but  little!  nevertheless  it 
is  good,  though  there  is  better  than  It." 

As  time  went  on,  her  "Cabinet,"  as  she  called  it,  grew 
larger.  Officials  with  whom  her  work  brought  her  into 
touch  and  who  sympathised  with  her  objects,  were  pressed 
into  her  service;  and  old  friends  of  the  Crimean  days 
gathered  round  her  when  they  returned  to  England. 
Among  these  the  most  indefatigable  was  Dr.  Sutherland, 
a  sanitary  expert,  who  for  more  than  thirty  years  acted 
as  her  confidential  private  secretary,  and  surrendered  to 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I/I 

her  purposes  literally  the  whole  of  his  life.  Thus  sustained 
and  assisted,  thus  slaved  for  and  adored,  she  prepared  to 
beard  the  Bison. 

Two  facts  soon  emerged,  and  all  that  followed  turned 
upon  them.  It  became  clear,  in  the  first  place,  that  that 
imposing  mass  was  not  immovable,  and,  in  the  second,  that 
its  movement,  when  it  did  move,  would  be  exceedingly 
slow.  The  Bison  was  no  match  for  the  lady.  It  was  in  vain 
that  he  put  down  his  head  and  planted  his  feet  in  the  earth ; 
he  could  not  withstand  her;  the  white  hand  forced  him 
back.  But  the  process  was  an  extraordinarily  gradual  one. 
Dr.  Andrew  Smith  and  all  his  War  Office  phalanx  stood 
behind,  blocking  the  way;  the  poor  Bison  groaned  in- 
wardly, and  cast  a  wistful  eye  towards  the  happy  pastures 
of  the  Free  Church  of  Scotland;  then  slowly,  with  infinite 
reluctance,  step  by  step,  he  retreated,  disputing  every  inch 
of  the  ground. 

The  first  great  measure,  which,  supported  as  it  was  by 
the  Queen,  the  Cabinet,  and  the  united  opinion  of  the 
country,  it  was  impossible  to  resist,  was  the  appointment 
of  a  Royal  Commission  to  report  upon  the  health  of  the 
Army.  The  question  of  the  composition  of  the  Commis- 
sion then  immediately  arose;  and  it  was  over  this  matter 
that  the  first  hand-to-hand  encounter  between  Lord  Pan- 
mure  and  Miss  Nightingale  took  place.  They  met,  and 
Miss  Nightingale  was  victorious;  Sidney  Herbert  was  ap- 
pointed Chairman;  and,  in  the  end  the  only  member  of 
the  Commission  opposed  to  her  views  was  Dr.  Andrew 
Smith.  During  the  interview,  Miss  Nightingale  made  an 
important  discovery:  she  found  that  "the  Bison  was 
bullyable" — the  hide  was  the  hide  of  a  Mexican  buffalo^ 
but  the  spirit  was  the  spirit  of  an  Alderney  calf.  And  there 
was  one  thing  above  all  others  which  the  huge  creature 


172  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

dreaded — an  appeal  to  public  opinion.  The  faintest  hint  of 
such  a  terrible  eventuality  made  his  heart  dissolve  within 
him;  he  would  agree  to  anything — he  would  cut  short 
his  grouse-shooting — he  would  make  a  speech  in  the  House 
of  Lords — he  would  even  overrule  Dr.  Andrew  Smith — 
rather  than  that.  Miss  Nightingale  held  the  fearful  threat 
in  reserve — she  would  speak  out  what  she  knew;  she  would 
publish  the  truth  to  the  whole  world,  and  let  the  whole 
world  judge  between  them.  With  supreme  skill,  she  kept 
this  sword  of  Damocles  poised  above  the  Bison's  head,  and 
more  than  once  she  was  actually  on  the  point  of  really 
dropping  it.  For  his  recalcitrancy  grew  and  grew.  The 
personnel  of  the  Commission  once  determined  upon,  there 
was  a  struggle,  which  lasted  for  six  months,  over  the  nature 
of  its  powers.  Was  it  to  be  an  efficient  body,  armed  with 
the  right  of  full  inquiry  and  wide  examination,  or  was  it 
to  be  a  polite  official  contrivance  for  exonerating  Dr. 
Andrew  Smith?  The  War  Office  phalanx  closed  its  ranks, 
and  fought  tooth  and  nail;  but  it  was  defeated:  the  Bison 
was  bullyable. 

Three  months  from  this  day  [Miss  Nightingale  had  written 
at  last]  I  publish  my  experience  of  the  Crimean  Campaign,  and 
my  suggestions  for  improvement,  unless  there  has  been  a  fair 
and  tangible  pledge  by  that  time  for  reform. 

Who  could  face  that? 

And,  if  the  need  came,  she  meant  to  be  as  good  as  her 
word.  For  she  had  now  determined,  whatever  might  be 
the  fate  of  the  Commission,  to  draw  up  her  own  report 
upon  the  questions  at  issue.  The  labour  involved  was 
enormous;  her  health  was  almost  desperate;  but  she  did 
not  flinch,  and  after  six  months  of  incredible  industry 
she  had  put  together  and  written  with  her  own  hand  her 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I73 

"Notes  affecting  the  Health,  Efficiency,  and  Hospital  Ad- 
ministration of  the  British  Army."  This  extraordinary 
composition,  filling  more  than  eight  hundred  closely 
printed  pages,  laying  down  vast  principles  of  far-reaching 
reform,  discussing  the  minutest  details  of  a  multitude  of 
controversial  subjects,  containing  an  enormous  mass  of 
information  of  the  most  varied  kinds — military,  statis- 
tical, sanitary,  architectural — was  never  given  to  the 
public,  for  the  need  never  came;  but  it  formed  the  basis 
of  the  Report  of  the  Royal  Commission;  and  it  remains 
to  this  day  the  leading  authority  on  the  medical  adminis- 
tration of  armies. 

Before  it  had  been  completed  the  struggle  over  the 
powers  of  the  Commission  had  been  brought  to  a  vic- 
torious close.  Lord  Panmvire  had  given  way  once  more; 
he  had  immediately  hurried  to  the  Queen  to  obtain  hei 
consent;  and  only  then,  when  her  Majesty's  initials  had 
been  irrevocably  affixed  to  the  fatal  document,  did  he 
dare  to  tell  Dr.  Andrew  Smith  what  he  had  done.  The 
Commission  met,  and  another  immense  load  fell  upon  Miss 
Nightingale's  shoulders.  To-day  she  would,  of  course, 
have  been  one  of  the  Commission  herself;  but  at  that  time 
the  idea  of  a  woman  appearing  in  such  a  capacity  was 
unheard  of;  and  no  one  even  suggested  the  possibility  of 
Miss  Nightingale's  doing  so.  The  result  was  that  she  was 
obliged  to  remain  behind  the  scenes  throughout,  to  coach 
Sidney  Herbert  in  private  at  every  important  juncture, 
and  to  convey  to  him  and  to  her  other  friends  upon  the 
Commission  the  vast  funds  of  her  expert  knowledge — so 
essential  in  the  examination  of  witnesses — by  means  of 
innumerable  consultations,  letters,  and  memoranda.  It 
was  even  doubtful  whether  the  proprieties  would  admit  of 
her  giving  evidence;  and  at  fast,  as  a  compromise,  her 


174  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

modesty  only  allowed  her  to  do  so  in  the  form  of  written 
answers  to  written  questions.  At  length  the  grand  affair 
was  finished.  The  Commission's  Report,  embodying  al- 
most word  for  word  the  suggestions  of  Miss  Nightingale, 
was  drawn  up  by  Sidney  Herbert.  Only  one  question  re- 
mained to  be  answered — would  anything,  after  all,  be 
done?  Or  would  the  Royal  Commission,  like  so  many  other 
Royal  Commissions  before  and  since,  turn  out  to  have 
achieved  nothing  but  the  concoction  of  a  very  fat  blue- 
book  on  a  very  high  shelf? 

And  so  the  last  and  the  deadliest  struggle  with  the 
Bison  began.  Six  months  had  been  spent  in  coercing  him 
into  granting  the  Commission  effective  powers;  six  more 
months  were  occupied  by  the  work  of  the  Commission; 
and  now  yet  another  six  were  to  pass  in  extorting  from 
him  the  means  whereby  the  recommendations  of  the  Com- 
mission might  be  actually  carried  out.  But,  in  the  end 
the  thing  was  done.  Miss  Nightingale  seemed  indeed^ 
during  these  months,  to  be  upon  the  very  brink  of  death. 
Accompanied  by  the  faithful  Aunt  Mai,  she  moved  from 
place  to  place — to  Hampstead,  to  Highgate,  to  Derby- 
shire, to  Malvern — in  what  appeared  to  be  a  last  desperate 
effort  to  find  health  somewhere;  but  she  carried  that  with 
her  which  made  health  impossible.  Her  desire  for  work 
could  now  scarcely  be  distinguised  from  mania.  At  one 
moment  she  was  writing  a  "last  letter"  to  Sidney  Herbert; 
at  the  next  she  was  offering  to  go  out  to  India  to  nurse  thf, 
sufferers  in  the  Mutiny.  When  Dr.  Sutherland  wrote,  im- 
ploring her  to  take  a  holiday,  she  raved.  Rest! — 

I  am  lying  without  my  head,  without  my  claws,  and  you  all 
peck  at  me;  It  is  de  rigueur,  d'obligation,  like  the  saying  some- 
thing to  one's  hat,  when  one  goes  into  church,  to  say  to  me  all 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I75 

that  has  been  said  to  me  no  times  a  day  during  the  last  three 
months.  It  is  the  obbligato  on  the  viohn,  and  the  twelve  violins 
all  practise  it  together,  like  the  clocks  striking  12  o'clock  at 
night  all  over  London,  till  I  say  like  Xavier  de  Maistre,  Assez,  je 
le  sais,  je  ne  le  sais  que  trop.  I  am  not  a  penitent;  but  you  are 
like  the  R.  C.  confessor,  who  says  what  is  de  rigueur. . . . 

Her  wits  began  to  turn,  and  there  was  no  holding  her. 
She  worked  like  a  slave  in  a  mine.  She  began  to  believe, 
as  she  had  begun  to  believe  at  Scutari,  that  none  of  her 
fellow- workers  had  their  hearts  in  the  business;  if  they 
had,  why  did  they  not  work  as  she  did?  She  could  only 
see  slackness  and  stupidity  around  her.  Dr.  Sutherland, 
of  course,  was  grotesquely  muddle-headed;  and  Arthur 
Clough  incurably  lazy.  Even  Sidney  Herbert  ...  oh  yes, 
he  had  simplicity  and  candour  and  quickness  of  percep- 
tion, no  doubt;  but  he  was  an  eclectic;  and  what  could 
one  hope  for  from  a  man  who  went  away  to  fish  in  Ireland 
just  when  the  Bison  most  needed  bullying?  As  for  the 
Bison  himself  he  had  fled  to  Scotland,  where  he  remained 
burled  for  many  months.  The  fate  of  the  vital  recom- 
mendation in  the  Commission's  Report — the  appoint- 
ment of  four  Sub-Commissions  charged  with  the  duty 
of  determining  upon  the  details  of  the  proposed  reforms 
and  of  putting  them  into  execution — still  hung  in  the 
balance.  The  Bison  consented  to  everything;  and  then, 
on  a  flying  visit  to  London,  withdrew  his  consent  and 
hastily  returned  to  Scotland.  Then  for  many  weeks  all 
business  was  suspended;  he  had  gout — gout  in  the  hands, 
so  that  he  could  not  write.  "His  gout  was  always  handy," 
remarked  Miss  Nightingale.  But  eventually  it  was  clear 
even  to  the  Bison  that  the  game  was  up,  and  the  inevitable 
surrender  came. 

There  was,  however,  one  point  in  which  he  triumphed 


Ij6  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

over  Miss  Nightingale.  The  building  of  Netley  Hospital 
had  been  begun,  under  his  orders,  before  her  return  to 
England.  Soon  after  her  arrival  she  examined  the  plans, 
and  found  that  they  reproduced  all  the  worst  faults  of 
an  out-of-date  and  mischievous  system  of  hospital  con- 
struction. She  therefore  urged  that  the  matter  should  be 
reconsidered,  and  in  the  meantime  building  stopped.  But 
the  Bison  was  obdurate;  it  would  be  very  expensive,  and 
in  any  case  it  was  too  late.  Unable  to  make  any  impression 
on  him,  and  convinced  of  the  extreme  importance  of  the 
question,  she  determined  to  appeal  to  a  higher  authority. 
Lord  Palmerston  was  Prime  Minister;  she  had  known  him 
from  her  childhood;  he  was  a  near  neighbour  of  her 
father's  in  the  New  Forest.  She  went  down  to  the  New 
Forest,  armed  with  the  plans  of  the  proposed  hospital 
and  all  the  relevant  information,  stayed  the  night  at  Lord 
Palmerston's  house,  and  convinced  him  of  the  necessity 
of  rebuilding  Netley. 

It  seems  to  me  [Lord  Palmerston  wrote  to  Lord  Panmure]  that 
at  Netley  all  consideration  of  what  would  best  tend  to  the  com- 
fort and  recovery  of  the  patients  has  been  sacrificed  to  the 
vanity  of  the  architect,  whose  sole  object  has  been  to  make  a 
building  which  should  cut  a  dash  when  looked  at  from  the 
Southampton  river.  .  .  .  Pray,  therefore,  stop  all  further  progress 
in  the  work  imtil  the  matter  can  be  duly  considered. 

But  the  Bison  was  not  to  be  moved  by  one  peremptory 
letter,  even  if  it  was  from  the  Prime  Minister.  He  put 
forth  all  his  powers  of  procrastination,  Lord  Palmerston 
lost  interest  in  the  subject,  and  so  the  chief  military 
hospital  in  England  was  triumphantly  completed  on  un- 
sanitary principles,  with  unventilated  rooms,  and  with  all 
the  patients'  windows  facmg  northeast. 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I77 

But  now  the  time  had  come  when  the  Bison  was  to 
trouble  and  to  be  troubled  no  more.  A  vote  in  the  House  of 
Commons  brought  about  the  fall  of  Lord  Palmerston's 
Government,  and  Lord  Panmure  found  himself  at  liberty 
to  devote  the  rest  of  his  life  to  the  Free  Church  of  Scotland. 
After  a  brief  interval,  Sidney  Herbert  became  Secretary 
of  State  for  War.  Great  was  the  jubilation  in  the  Nightin- 
gale Cabinet;  the  day  of  achievement  had  dawned  at  last. 
The  next  two  and  a  half  years  (1859-^1)  saw  the  intro- 
duction of  the  whole  system  of  reforms  for  which  Miss 
Nightingale  had  been  struggling  so  fiercely — reforms 
which  make  Sidney  Herbert's  tenure  of  power  at  the  War 
Office  an  important  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  British 
Army.  The  four  Sub-Commissions,  firmly  established 
under  the  immediate  control  of  the  Minister,  and  urged 
forward  by  the  relentless  perseverance  of  Miss  Nightin- 
gale, set  to  work  with  a  will.  The  barracks  and  the  hospitals 
were  remodelled;  they  were  properly  ventilated  and 
warmed  and  lighted  for  the  first  time ;  they  were  given  a 
water  supply  which  actually  supplied  water,  and  kitchens 
where,  strange  to  say,  it  was  possible  to  cook.  Then  the 
great  question  of  the  Purveyor — that  portentous  func- 
tionary whose  powers  and  whose  lack  of  powers  had 
weighed  like  a  nightmare  upon  Scutari — was  taken  in 
hand,  and  new  regulations  were  laid  down,  accurately  de- 
fining his  responsibilities  and  his  duties.  One  Sub-Commis- 
sion reorganised  the  medical  statistics  of  the  Army.  An- 
other established — in  spite  of  the  last  convulsive  efforts  of 
the  Department — an  Army  Medical  School.  Finally  the 
Army  Medical  Department  itself  was  completely  reorgan- 
ised; an  administrative  code  was  drawn  up;  and  the  great 
and  novel  principle  was  established  that  it  was  as  much  a 
part  of  the  duty  of  the  authorities  to  look  after  the  soldier'j. 


lyS  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

health  as  to  look  after  his  sickness.  Besides  this,  it  was  at 
last  officially  admitted  that  he  had  a  moral  and  intellectual 
side.  Coffee-rooms  and  reading-rooms,  gymnasiums  and 
workshops  were  instituted.  A  new  era  did  in  truth  appear 
to  have  begun.  Already  by  iS6i  the  mortality  in  the 
Army  had  decreased  by  one  half  since  the  days  of  the 
Crimea.  It  was  no  wonder  that  even  vaster  possibilities 
began  now  to  open  out  before  Miss  Nightingale,  One 
thing  was  still  needed  to  complete  and  to  assure  her  tri- 
umphs. The  Army  Medical  Department  was  indeed 
reorganised;  but  the  great  central  machine  was  still 
untouched.  The  War  Office  itself — ! — If  she  could  re- 
mould that  nearer  to  her  heart's  desire — there  indeed 
would  be  a  victory!  And  until  that  final  act  was  accom- 
plished, how  could  she  be  certain  that  all  the  rest  of  her 
achievements  might  not,  by  some  capricious  turn  of  For- 
tune's wheel — a  change  of  Ministry,  perhaps,  replacing 
Sidney  Herbert  by  some  puppet  of  the  permanent  official 
gang — be  swept  to  limbo  in  a  moment? 

Meanwhile,  still  ravenous  for  more  and  yet  more  work, 
her  activities  had  branched  out  into  new  directions.  The 
army  in  India  claimed  her  attention.  A  Sanitary  Commis- 
sion, appointed  at  her  suggestion,  and  working  under  her 
auspices,  did  for  our  troops  there  what  the  four  Sub- 
Commissions  were  doing  for  those  at  home.  At  the  same 
time,  these  very  years  which  saw  her  laying  the  founda- 
tions of  the  whole  modern  system  of  medical  work  in  the 
army,  saw  her  also  beginning  to  bring  her  knowledge, 
her  influence,  and  her  activity  into  the  service  of  the 
country  at  large.  Her  Notes  on  Hospitals  (1859)  revolu- 
tionised the  theory  of  hospital  construction  and  hospital 
management.  She  was  immediately  recognised  as  the  lead- 
ing expert  upon  all  the  questions  involved;  her  advice 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I79 

flowed  unceasingly  and  in  all  directions,  so  that  there  is 
no  great  hospital  today  which  does  not  bear  upon  it  the 
impress  of  her  mind.  Nor  was  this  all.  With  the  opening 
of  the  Nightingale  Training  School  for  Nurses  at  St. 
Thomas's  Hospital  (i860),  she  became  the  founder  of 
modern  nursing. 

But  a  terrible  crisis  was  now  fast  approaching.  Sidney 
Herbert  had  consented  to  undertake  the  root  and  branch 
reform  of  the  War  Office.  He  had  sallied  forth  into  that 
tropical  jungle  of  festooned  obstructiveness,  of  inter- 
twisted irresponsibilities,  of  crouching  prejudices,  of 
abuses  grown  stiff  and  rigid  with  antiquity,  which  for  so 
many  years  to  come  was  destined  to  lure  reforming  min- 
isters to  their  doom. 

The  War  Office  [said  Miss  Nightingale]  is  a  very  slow  office, 
an  enormously  expensive  office,  and  one  in  which  the  Minister's 
intentions  can  be  entirely  negatived  by  all  his  sub-departments, 
and  those  of  each  of  the  sub-departments  by  every  other. 

It  was  true;  and,  of  course,  at  the  first  rumour  of  a 
change,  the  old  phalanx  of  reaction  was  bristling  with  Its 
accustomed  spears.  At  its  head  stood  no  longer  Dr.  An- 
drew Smith,  who,  some  time  since,  had  followed  the  Bison 
into  outer  darkness,  but  a  yet  more  formidable  figure, 
the  permanent  Under-Secretary  himself.  Sir  Benjamin 
Hawes — Ben  Hawes  the  Nightingale  Cabinet  irreverently 
dubbed  him — a  man  remarkable  even  among  civil  servants 
for  adroitness  in  baffling  inconvenient  inquiries,  resource 
in  raising  false  issues,  and,  in  short,  a  consummate  com- 
mand of  all  the  arts  of  officially  sticking  in  the  mud.  "Our 
scheme  will  probably  result  in  Ben  Hawes's  resignation," 
Miss  Nightingale  said;  "and  that  is  another  of  its  advan- 
tages." Ben  Hawes  himself,  however,  did  not  quite  see  it 


[So  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

in  that  light.  He  set  himself  to  resist  the  wishes  of  the 
Minister  by  every  means  in  his  power.  The  struggle  was 
long  and  desperate;  and,  as  it  proceeded,  it  gradually  be- 
came evident  to  Miss  Nightingale  that  something  was  the 
matter  with  Sidney  Herbert.  "What  was  it?  His  health, 
never  very  strong,  was,  he  said,  in  danger  of  collapsing 
under  the  strain  of  his  work.  But,  after  all,  what  is  illness, 
when  there  is  a  War  Office  to  be  reorganised?  Then  he 
began  to  talk  of  retiring  altogether  from  public  life.  The 
doctors  were  consulted,  and  declared  that,  above  all 
things,  what  was  necessary  was  rest.  Rest!  She  grew  seri- 
ously alarmed.  Was  it  possible  that,  at  the  last  moment, 
the  crowning  wreath  of  victory  was  to  be  snatched  from 
her  grasp?  She  was  not  to  be  put  aside  by  doctors;  they 
w^ere  talking  nonsense;  the  necessary  thing  was  not  rest 
but  the  reform  of  the  "War  Office;  and,  besides,  she  knew 
very  well  from  her  own  case  what  one  could  do  even 
when  one  was  on  the  point  of  death.  She  expostulated 
Vehemently,  passionately:  the  goal  was  so  near,  so  very 
near;  he  could  not  turn  back  now!  At  any  rate,  he  could 
not  resist  Miss  Nightingale.  A  compromise  was  arranged. 
Very  reluctantly,  he  exchanged  the  turmoil  of  the  House 
of  Commons  for  the  dignity  of  the  House  of  Lords,  and 
he  remained  at  the  "War  Office.  She  was  delighted.  "One 
fight  more,  the  best  and  the  last,"  she  said. 

For  several  more  months  the  fight  did  indeed  go  on.  But 
the  strain  upon  him  was  greater  even  than  she  perhaps 
could  realise.  Besides  the  intestine  war  in  his  office,  he  had 
to  face  a  constant  battle  in  the  Cabinet  with  Mr.  Glad- 
stone— a  more  redoubtable  antagonist  even  than  Ben 
Hawes — over  the  estimates.  His  health  grew  worse  and 
worse.  He  was  attacked  by  fainting-fits;  and  there  were 
some  days  when  he  could  only  just  keep  himself  going  by 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  l8l 

gulps  of  brandy.  Miss  Nightingale  spurred  him  forward 
with  her  encouragements  and  her  admonitions,  her  zeal 
and  her  example.  But  at  last  his  spirit  began  to  sink  as 
well  as  his  body.  He  could  no  longer  hope;  he  could  no 
longer  desire;  it  was  useless,  all  useless;  it  was  utterly  im- 
possible. He  had  failed.  The  dreadful  m.oment  came  when 
the  truth  was  forced  upon  him:  he  would  never  be  able 
to  reform  the  War  Office.  But  a  yet  more  dreadful  mo- 
ment lay  behind;  he  must  go  to  Miss  Nightingale  and  tell 
her  that  he  was  a  failure,  a  beaten  man. 

Blessed  are  the  merciful!  What  strange  ironic  prescience 
had  led  Prince  Albert,  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart,  to 
choose  that  motto  for  the  Crimean  brooch?  The  words 
hold  a  double  lesson;  and,  alas!  when  she  brought  herself 
to  realise  at  length  what  was  indeed  the  fact  and  what 
there  was  no  helping,  it  was  not  in  mercy  that  she  turned 
upon  her  old  friend. 

Beaten!  [she  exclaimed].  Can't  you  see  that  you've  simply 
thrown  away  the  game?  And  with  all  the  winning  cards  in 
your  hands!  And  so  noble  a  game!  Sidney  Herbert  beaten!  And 
beaten  by  Ben  Hawes!  It  is  a  worse  disgrace.  . . .  [her  full  rage 
burst  out  at  las*']  ...  a  worse  disgrace  than  tks  hospitals  at 
Scutari. 

He  dragged  himself  away  from  her,  dragged  himself 
to  Spa,  hoping  vainly  for  a  return  of  health,  and  then, 
despairing,  back  again  to  England,  to  Wilton,  to  the 
majestic  house  standing  there  resplendent  in  the  summer 
sunshine,  among  the  great  cedars  which  had  lent  their 
shade  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  all  those  familiar,  darling 
haunts  of  beauty  which  he  loved,  each  one  of  them,  "as 
if  they  were  persons";  and  at  Wilton  he  died.  After 
'■>aving  received  the  Eucharist  he  had  become  perfectly 


l82  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

calm;  then,  almost  unconscious,  his  lips  were  seen  to  be 
moving.  Those  about  him  bent  down.  "Poor  Florence! 
Poor  Florence!"  they  just  caught.  ". . .  Our  joint  work  . . . 
unfinished . . .  tried  to  do . .  .'*  and  they  could  hear  no 
more. 

When  the  onward  rush  of  a  powerful  spirit  sweeps  a 
weaker  one  to  its  destruction,  the  commonplaces  of  the 
moral  judgment  are  better  left  unmade.  If  Miss  Nightin- 
gale had  been  less  ruthless,  Sidney  Herbert  would  not 
have  perished;  but  then,  she  would  not  have  been  Miss 
Nightingale.  The  force  that  created  was  the  force  that 
destroyed.  It  was  her  Demon  that  was  responsible.  When 
the  fatal  news  reached  her,  she  was  overcome  by  agony. 
In  the  revulsion  of  her  feelings,  she  made  a  worship  of 
the  dead  man's  memory;  and  the  facile  instrument  which 
had  broken  in  her  hand  she  spoke  of  for  ever  after  as  her 
"Master."  Then,  almost  at  the  same  moment,  another 
blow  fell  upon  her.  Arthur  Clough,  worn  out  by  labours 
very  different  from  those  of  Sidney  Herbert,  died  too: 
never  more  would  he  tie  up  her  parcels.  And  yet  a  third 
disaster  followed.  The  faithful  Aunt  Mai  did  not,  to  be 
sure,  die;  no,  she  did  something  almost  worse:  she  left 
Miss  Nightingale.  She  was  growing  old,  and  she  felt  that 
she  had  closer  and  more  imperative  duties  with  her  own 
family.  Her  niece  could  hardly  forgive  h<^r.  She  poured 
out,  in  one  of  her  enormous  letters,  a  passionate  diatribe 
upon  the  faithlessness,  the  lack  of  sympathy,  the  stupidity, 
the  ineptitude  of  women.  Her  doctrines  had  taken  no 
hold  among  them;  she  had  never  known  one  who  had 
appris  a  apprendre;  she  could  not  even  get  a  woman 
secretary;  "they  don't  know  the  names  of  the  Cabinet 
Ministers — they  don't  know  which  of  the  Churches  has 
Bishops  and  which  not."  As  for  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice, 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  183 

well — Sidney  Herbert  and  Arthur  Clough  were  men,  and 
they  indeed  had  shown  their  devotion;  but  women — ! 
She  would  mount  three  widow's  caps  "for  a  sign."  The 
first  two  would  be  for  Clough  and  for  her  Master;  but 
the  third,  "the  biggest  widow's  cap  of  all" — would  be  for 
Aunt  Mai.  She  did  well  to  be  angry;  she  was  deserted  in 
her  hour  of  need;  and,  after  all,  could  she  be  sure  that 
even  the  male  sex  was  so  impeccable?  There  "v/as  Dr. 
Sutherland,  bungling  as  usual.  Perhaps  even  he  mtended 
to  go  off,  one  of  these  days,  too?  She  gave  him  1  look,  and 
he  shivered  in  his  shoes.  No! — she  grinned  sardonically; 
she  would  always  have  Dr.  Sutherland.  And  then  she  re- 
flected that  there  was  one  thing  more  that  she  would 
always  have — her  work. 


IV 

Sidney  Herbert's  death  finally  put  an  end  to  Miss  Night- 
ingale's dream  of  a  reformed  War  Office.  For  a  moment, 
indeed,  in  the  first  agony  of  her  disappointment,  she  had 
wildly  clutched  at  a  straw;  she  had  written  to  Mr.  Glad- 
stone to  beg  him  to  take  up  the  burden  of  Sidney  Her- 
bert's work.  And  Mr.  Gladstone  had  replied  with  a  sympa- 
thetic account  of  the  funeral. 

Succeeding  Secretaries  of  State  managed  between  them 
to  undo  a  good  deal  of  what  had  been  accomplished,  but 
they  could  not  undo  it  all;  and  for  ten  years  more  (1862- 
72)  Miss  Nightingale  remained  a  potent  influence  at  the 
War  OflEce.  After  that,  her  direct  connection  with  the 
army  came  to  an  end,  and  her  energies  began  to  turn  more 
and  more  completely  towards  more  general  objects.  Her 
work  upon  hospital  reform  assumed  enormous  propor- 
tions; she  was  able  to  improve  the  conditions  in  infirmaries 
and  workhouses;  and  one  of  her  most  remarkable  papers 
forestalls  the  recommendations  of  the  Poor  Law  Com- 
mission of  1909.  Her  training  school  for  nurses,  with  all 
that  it  involved  in  initiative,  control,  responsibility,  and 
combat,  would  have  been  enough  in  itself  to  have  ab- 
sorbed the  whole  efforts  of  at  least  two  lives  of  ordinary 
vigour.  And  at  the  same  time  her  work  in  connection 
with  India,  which  had  begun  with  the  Sanitary  Commis- 
sion on  the  Indian  Army,  spread  and  ramified  in  a  multi- 
tude of  directions.  Her  tentacles  reached  the  India  Office 
and  succeeded  in  establishing  a  hold  even  upon  those 

184 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  185 

slippery  high  places.  For  many  years  it  was  de  rigueur  for 
the  newly  appointed  Viceroy,  before  he  left  England,  to 
pay  a  visit  to  Miss  Nightingale. 

After  much  hesitation,  she  had  settled  down  in  a  small 
house  in  South  Street,  where  she  remained  for  the  rest 
of  her  life.  That  life  was  a  very  long  one ;  the  dying  woman 
reached  her  ninety-first  year.  Her  ill-health  gradually 
diminished;   the  crises   of  extreme  danger  became  less 
frequent,  and  at  last,  altogether  ceased;  she  remained  an 
invalid,  but  an  invalid  of  a  curious  character — an  invalid 
who  was  too  weak  to  walk  downstairs  and  who  worked 
far  harder  than  most  Cabinet  Ministers.  Her  illness,  what- 
ever it  may  have  been,  was  certainly  not  inconvenient.  It 
involved  seclusion;  and  an  extraordinary,  an  unparalleled 
seclusion  was,  it  might  almost  have  been  said,  the  main- 
spring of  Miss  Nightingale's  life.  Lying  on  her  sofa  in 
the  little  upper  room  in  South  Street,  she  combined  the 
intense  vitality  of  a  dominating  woman  of  the  world  with 
the  mysterious  and  romantic  quality  of  a  myth.  She  was 
a  legend  in  her  lifetime,  and  she  knew  it.  She  tasted  the 
joys  of  power,  like  those  Eastern  Emperors  whose  auto- 
cratic rule  was  based  upon  invisibility,  with  the  mingled 
satisfactions  of  obscurity  and  fame.  And  she  found  the 
machinery  of  illness  hardly  less  effective  as   a  barrier 
against  the  eyes  of  men  than  the  ceremonial  of  a  palace. 
Great  statesmen  and  renowned  generals  were  obliged  to 
beg  for  audiences;  admiring  princesses  from  foreign  coun- 
tries found  that  they  must  see  her  at  her  own  time,  or 
not  at  all;  and  the  ordinary  mortal  had  no  hope  of  ever 
getting   beyond   the   downstairs   sitting-room    and   Dr. 
Sutherland.  For  that  indefatigable  disciple  did,  indeed, 
never  desert  her.  He  might  be  impatient,  he  might  be 
restless,  but  he  remained.  His  "incurable  looseness  of 


lS6  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

thought,"  for  so  she  termed  it,  continued  at  her  service 
to  the  end.  Once,  it  is  true,  he  had  actually  ventured  to 
take  a  holiday;  but  he  was  recalled,  and  he  did  not  repeat 
the  experiment.  He  was  wanted  downstairs.  There  he  sat, 
transacting  business,  answering  correspondence,  inter- 
viewing callers,  and  exchanging  innumerable  notes  with 
the  unseen  power  above.  Sometimes  word  came  down  that 
Miss  Nightingale  was  just  well  enough  to  see  one  of  her 
visitors.  The  fortunate  man  was  led  up,  was  ushered, 
trembling,  into  the  shaded  chamber,  and,  of  course,  could 
never  afterwards  forget  the  interview.  Very  rarely,  indeed, 
once  or  twice  a  year,  perhaps,  but  nobody  could  be  quite 
certain,  in  deadly  secrecy,  Miss  Nightingale  went  out  for 
A  drive  in  the  Park.  Unrecognised,  the  living  legend  flitted 
for  a  moment  before  the  common  gaze.  And  the  precau- 
tion was  necessary;  for  there  were  times  when,  at  some 
public  function,  the  rumour  of  her  presence  was  spread 
abroad;  and  ladies,  mistaken  by  the  crowd  for  Miss  Night- 
ingale, were  followed,  pressed  upon,  and  vehemently  sup- 
plicated— "Let  me  touch  your  shawl," — "Let  me  stroke 
your  arm";  such  was  the  strange  adoration  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people.  That  vast  reserve  of  force  lay  there  behind  her; 
she  could  use  it,  if  she  would.  But  she  preferred  never  to  use 
it.  On  occasions,  she  might  hint  or  threaten;  she  might 
balance  the  sword  of  Damocles  over  the  head  of  the  Bison; 
she  might,  by  a  word,  by  a  glance,  remind  some  refractory 
minister,  some  unpersuadable  viceroy,  sitting  in  audience 
with  her  in  the  little  upper  room,  that  she  was  something 
more  than  a  mere  sick  woman,  that  she  had  only,  so  to 
speak,  to  go  to  the  window  and  wave  her  handkerchief, 
f or ...  dreadful  things  to  follow.  But  that  was  enough; 
they  understood;  the  myth  was  there — obvious,  porten- 
tous, impalpable;  and  so  it  remained  to  the  last. 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  187 

"With  statesmen  and  governors  at  her  beck  and  call, 
with  her  hands  on  a  hundred  strings,  with  mighty- 
provinces  at  her  feet,  with  foreign  governments  agog  for 
her  counsel,  building  hospitals,  training  nurses — she  still 
felt  that  she  had  not  enough  to  do.  She  sighed  for  more 
worlds  to  conquer — more,  and  yet  more.  She  looked  about 
her — what  was  there  left?  Of  course!  Philosophy!  After 
the  world  of  action,  the  world  of  thought.  Having  set 
right  the  health  of  the  British  Army,  she  would  now  do 
the  same  good  service  for  the  religious  convictions  of 
mankind.  She  had  long  noticed — with  regret — the  grow- 
ing tendency  towards  free-thinking  among  artisans.  With 
regret,  but  not  altogether  with  surprise;  the  current  teach- 
ing of  Christianity  was  sadly  to  seek;  nay,  Christianity  it- 
self was  not  without  its  defects.  She  would  rectify  these 
errors.  She  would  correct  the  mistakes  of  the  Churches; 
she  would  point  out  just  where  Christianity  was  wrong; 
and  she  would  explain  to  the  artisans  what  the  facts  of 
the  case  really  were.  Before  her  departure  for  the  Crimea, 
she  had  begun  this  work;  and  now.  In  the  Intervals  of  her 
other  labours,  she  completed  it.  Her  "Suggestions  for 
Thought  to  the  Searchers  after  Truth  among  the  Ar- 
tisans of  England"  (i860),  unravels,  in  the  course  of 
three  portly  volumes,  the  difficulties — ^hitherto,  curiously 
enough,  unsolved — connected  with  such  matters  as  Be- 
lief In  God,  the  Plan  of  Creation,  the  Origin  of  Evil,  the 
Future  Life,  Necessity  and  Free  "Will,  Law,  and  the  Na- 
ture of  Morality.  The  Origin  of  Evil,  in  particular,  held 
no  perplexities  for  Miss  Nightingale.  "We  cannot  con- 
ceive," she  remarks,  "that  Omnipotent  Righteousness 
would  find  satisfaction  in  solitary  existence."  This  being 
so,  the  only  question  remaining  to  be  asked  is,  "What 
beings  should  we  then  conceive  that  God  would  create?''' 


l88  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Now,  He  cannot  create  perfect  beings,  "since,  essentially, 
perfection  is  one";  if  He  did  so.  He  would  only  be  adding 
to  Himself.  Thus  the  conclusion  is  obvious:  He  must  cre- 
ate /'///perfect  ones.  Omnipotent  Righteousness,  faced  by 
the  intolerable  impasse  of  a  solitary  existence,  finds  itself 
bound,  by  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  to  create  the  hos- 
pitals at  Scutari.  Whether  this  argument  would  have  satis- 
fied the  artisans,  was  never  discovered,  for  only  a  very 
few  copies  of  the  book  were  printed  for  private  circula- 
tion. One  copy  was  sent  to  Mr,  Mill,  who  acknowledged 
it  in  an  extremely  polite  letter.  He  felt  himself  obliged, 
however,  to  confess  that  he  had  not  been  altogether  con- 
vinced by  Miss  Nightingale's  proof  of  the  existence  of 
God.  Miss  Nightingale  was  surprised  and  mortified;  she 
had  thought  better  of  Mr.  Mill;  for  surely  her  proof  of 
the  existence  of  God  could  hardly  be  improved  upon.  "A 
law,"  she  had  pointed  out,  "implies  a  lawgiver."  Now  the 
Universe  is  full  of  laws — the  law  of  gravitation,  the  law 
of  the  excluded  middle,  and  many  others;  hence  it  follows 
that  the  Universe  has  a  lawgiver — and  what  would  Mr. 
Mill  be  satisfied  with,  if  he  was  not  satisfied  with  that? 

Perhaps  Mr.  Mill  might  have  asked  why  the  argument 
had  not  been  pushed  to  its  logical  conclusion.  Clearly,  if 
we  are  to  trust  the  analogy  of  human  institutions,  we 
must  remember  that  laws  are,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  not 
dispensed  by  lawgivers,  but  passed  by  Act  of  Parliament. 
Miss  Nightingale,  however,  with  all  her  experience  of 
public  life,  never  stopped  to  consider  the  question  whether 
God  might  not  be  a  Limited  Monarchy. 

Yet  her  conception  of  God  was  certainly  not  orthodox. 
She  felt  towards  Him  as  she  might  have  felt  towards  a 
glorified  sanitary  engineer;  and  in  some  of  her  specula- 
tions she  seems  hardly  to  distinguish  between  the  Deity 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  189 

and  the  Drains.  As  one  turns  over  these  singular  pages,- 
one  has  the  impression  that  Miss  Nightingale  has  got  the 
Almighty  too  into  her  clutches,  and  that,  if  He  is  not 
careful,  she  will  kill  Him  with  overwork. 

Then,  suddenly,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  ramifying 
generalities  of  her  metaphysical  disquisitions  there  is  an 
unexpected  turn,  and  the  reader  is  plunged  all  at  once 
into  something  particular,  something  personal,  something 
impregnated  with  intense  experience — a  virulent  invective 
upon  the  position  of  women  in  the  upper  ranks  of  society. 
Forgetful  alike  of  her  high  argument  and  of  the  artisans, 
the  bitter  creature  rails  through  a  hundred  pages  of  close 
print  at  the  falsities  of  family  life,  the  ineptitudes  of 
marriage,  the  emptiness  of  convention,  in  the  spirit  of  an 
Ibsen  or  a  Samuel  Butler,  Her  fierce  pen,  shaking  with 
intimate  anger,  depicts  in  biting  sentences  the  fearful  fate 
of  an  unmarried  girl  in  a  wealthy  household.  It  is  a  cri  du 
coeur;  and  then,  as  suddenly,  she  returns  once  more  to 
instruct  the  artisans  upon  the  nature  of  Omnipotent 
Righteousness. 

Her  mind  was,  indeed,  better  qualified  to  dissect  the 
concrete  and  distasteful  fruits  of  actual  life  than  to  con- 
struct a  coherent  system  of  abstract  philosophy.  In  spite 
of  her  respect  for  Law,  she  was  never  at  home  with  a  gen- 
eralisation. Thus,  though  the  great  achievement  of  her  life 
lay  in  the  immense  impetus  which  she  gave  to  the  scientific 
treatment  of  sickness,  a  true  comprehension  of  the  scien- 
tific method  itself  was  ahen  to  her  spirit.  Like  most  great 
men  of  action — perhaps  like  all — she  was  simply  an  em- 
piricist. She  believed  in  what  she  saw,  and  she  acted  ac- 
cordingly; beyond  that  she  would  not  go.  She  had  found 
in  Scutari  that  fresh  air  and  light  played  an  effective  part 
in  the  prevention  of  the  maladies  with  which  she  had  to 


190  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

deal;  and  that  was  enough  for  her;  she  would  not  inquire 
further;  what  were  the  general  principles  underlying  that 
fact — or  even  whether  there  were  any — she  refused  to 
consider.  Years  after  the  discoveries  of  Pasteur  and  Lister, 
she  laughed  at  what  she  called  the  "germ-fetish."  There 
was  no  such  thing  as  "infection";  she  had  never  seen  it, 
therefore  it  did  not  exist.  But  she  had  seen  the  good  effects 
of  fresh  air;  therefore  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  them; 
and  therefore  it  was  essential  that  the  bedrooms  of  pa- 
tients should  be  well  ventilated.  Such  was  her  doctrine; 
and  in  those  days  of  hermetically  sealed  windows  it  was 
a  very  valuable  one.  But  it  was  a  purely  empirical  doctrine, 
and  thus  it  led  to  some  unfortunate  results.  "When,  for 
instance,  her  influence  in  India  was  at  its  height,  she  issued 
orders  that  all  hospital  windows  should  be  invariably  kept 
open.  The  authorities,  who  knew  what  an  open  window 
in  the  hot  weather  meant,  protested,  but  in  vain;  Miss 
Nightingale  was  incredulous.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
hot  weather,  but  she  did  know  the  value  of  fresh  air — 
from  personal  experience;  the  authorities  were  talking 
nonsense  and  the  windows  must  be  kept  open  all  the  year 
round.  There  was  a  great  outcry  from  all  the  doctors  in 
India,  but  she  was  firm;  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  pos- 
sible that  her  terrible  commands  would  have  to  be  put 
into  execution.  Lord  Lawrence,  however,  was  Viceroy, 
and  he  was  able  to  intimate  to  Miss  Nightingale,  with 
sufficient  authority,  that  he  himself  had  decided  upon  the 
question,  and  that  his  decision  must  stand,  even  against 
her  own.  Upon  that,  she  gave  way.  but  reluctantly  and 
quite  unconvinced;  she  was  only  puzzled  by  the  unex- 
pected weakness  of  Lord  Lawrence.  No  doubt,  if  she  had 
lived  to-day,  and  if  her  experience  had  lain,  not  among 
cholera  cases  at  Scutari  but  among  yellow-fever  cases  in 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  19I 

Panama,  she  would  have  declared  fresh  air  a  fetish,  and 
would  have  maintained  to  her  dying  day  that  the  only 
really  effective  way  of  dealing  with  disease  was  by  the 
destruction  of  mosquitoes. 

Yet  her  mind,  so  positive,  so  realistic,  so  ultra-practical, 
had  its  singular  revulsions,  its  mysterious  moods  of  mys- 
ticism and  of  doubt.  At  times,  lying  sleepless  in  the  early 
hours,  she  fell  into  long  strange  agonised  meditations,  and 
then,  seizing  a  pencil,  she  would  commit  to  paper  the  con- 
fessions of  her  soul.  The  morbid  longings  of  her  pre- 
Crimean  days  came  over  her  once  more;  she  filled  page 
after  page  with  self-examination,  self-criticism,  self-sur- 
render. "O  Father,"  she  wrote,  "I  submit,  I  resign  myself, 
I  accept  with  all  my  heart  this  stretching  out  of  Thy  hand 
to  save  me.  .  .  .  O  how  vain  it  is,  the  vanity  of  vanities,  to 
live  in  men's  thoughts  instead  of  God's!"  She  was  lonely, 
she  was  miserable.  "Thou  knowest  that  through  all  these 
horrible  twenty  years,  I  have  been  supported  by  the  belief 
that  I  was  working  with  Thee  who  wert  bringing  every- 
one, even  our  poor  nurses,  to  perfection," — and  yet,  after 
all,  what  was  the  result?  Had  not  even  she  been  an  un- 
profitable servant?  One  night,  waking  suddenly,  she  saw, 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  night-lamp,  tenebrous  shapes  upon 
the  wall.  The  past  rushed  back  upon  her.  "Am  I  she  who 
once  stood  on  that  Crimean  height?"  she  wildly  asked — 
"  'The  Lady  with  a  lamp  shall  stand.  .  .  .'  The  lamp  shows 
me  only  my  utter  shipwreck." 

She  sought  consolation  in  the  writings  of  the  Mystics 
and  In  a  correspondence  with  Mr.  Jowett.  For  many  years 
the  Master  of  Balliol  acted  as  her  spiritual  adviser.  He 
discussed  with  her  In  a  series  of  enormous  letters  the 
problems  of  religion  and  philosophy;  he  criticised  her 
writings  on  those  subjects  with  the  tactful  sympathy  of 


192  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

a  cleric  who  was  also  a  man  of  the  world;  and  he  even 
ventured  to  attempt  at  times  to  instil  into  her  rebellious 
nature  some  of  his  own  peculiar  suavity.  "I  sometimes 
think,"  he  told  her,  "that  you  ought  seriously  to  consider 
how  your  work  may  be  carried  on,  not  with  less  energy, 
but  in  a  calmer*  spirit.  I  am  not  blaming  the  past. . . .  But 
I  want  the  peace  of  God  to  settle  on  the  future."  He  rec- 
ommended her  to  spend  her  time  no  longer  in  "conflicts 
with  Government  oflEces,"  and  to  take  up  some  literary 
work.  He  urged  her  to  "work  out  her  notion  of  Divine 
Perfection,"  in  a  series  of  essays  for  Frazer's  Magazine. 
She  did  so;  and  the  result  was  submitted  to  Mr.  Froude, 
who  pronounced  the  second  essay  to  be  "even  more  preg- 
nant than  the  first.  I  cannot  tell,"  he  said,  "how  sanitary, 
with  disordered  intellects,  the  effects  of  such  papers  will 
be."  Mr.  Carlyle,  indeed,  used  different  language,  and 
some  remarks  of  his  about  a  lost  lamb  bleating  on  the 
mountains  having  been  unfortunately  repeated  to  Miss 
Nightingale,  all  Mr.  Jowett's  suavity  was  required  to  keep 
the  peace.  In  a  letter  of  fourteen  sheets,  he  turned  her 
attention  from  the  painful  topic  towards  a  discussion  of 
Quietism.  "I  don't  see  why,"  said  the  Master  of  Balliol, 
"active  life  might  not  become  a  sort  of  passive  life  too." 
And  then,  he  added,  "I  sometimes  fancy  there  are  possi- 
bilities of  human  character  much  greater  than  have  been 
realised."  She  found  such  sentiments  helpful,  underlining 
them  in  blue  pencil;  and,  in  return,  she  assisted  her  friend 
with  a  long  series  of  elaborate  comments  upon  the  Dia- 
logues of  Plato,  most  of  which  he  embodied  in  the  second 
edition  of  his  translation.  Gradually  her  interest  became 
more  personal;  she  told  him  never  to  work  again  after 
midnight,  and  he  obeyed  her.  Then  she  helped  him  to 
draw  up  a  special  form  of  daily  service  for  the  College 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I93 

Chapel,  with  selections  from  the  Psalms,  under  the  heads 
of  "God  the  Lord,  God  the  Judge,  God  the  Father,  and 
God  the  Friend," — though,  indeed,  this  project  was  never 
realised;  for  the  Bishop  of  Oxford  disallowed  the  altera- 
tions, exercising  his  legal  powers,  on  the  advice  of  Sir 
Travers  Twiss. 

Their  relations  became  intimate.  "The  spirit  of  the 
twenty-third  psalm  and  the  spirit  of  the  nineteenth  psalm 
should  be  united  in  our  lives,"  Mr.  Jowett  said.  Eventually, 
she  asked  him  to  do  her  a  singular  favour.  Would  he, 
knowing  what  he  did  of  her  religious  views,  come  to 
London  and  administer  to  her  the  Holy  Sacrament?  He 
did  not  hesitate,  and  afterwards  declared  that  he  would 
always  regard  the  occasion  as  a  solemn  event  in  his  life. 
He  was  devoted  to  her;  though  the  precise  nature  of  his 
feelings  towards  her  never  quite  transpired.  Her  feelings 
towards  him  were  more  mixed.  At  first,  he  was  "that 
great  and  good  man" — "that  true  saint,  Mr.  Jowett"; 
but,  as  time  went  on,  some  gall  was  mingled  with  the 
balm;  the  acrimony  of  her  nature  asserted  itself.  She  felt 
that  she  gave  more  sympathy  than  she  received;  she  was 
exhausted,  she  was  annoyed,  by  his  conversation.  Her 
tongue,  one  day,  could  not  refrain  from  shooting  out  at 
him.  "He  comes  to  me,  and  he  talks  to  me,"  she  said,  "as 
if  I  were  someone  else." 


At  one  time  she  had  almost  decided  to  end  her  life  in 
retirement,  as  a  patient  at  St.  Thomas's  Hospital.  But 
partly  owing  to  the  persuasions  of  Mr.  Jowett,  she  changed 
her  mind;  for  forty-five  years  she  remained  in  South 
Street;  and  in  South  Street  she  died.  As  old  age  approached, 
though  her  influence  with  the  official  world  gradually 
diminished,  her  activities  seemed  to  remain  as  intense  and 
widespread  as  before.  When  hospitals  were  to  be  built, 
when  schemes  of  sanitary  reform  were  in  agitation,  when 
wars  broke  out,  she  was  still  the  adviser  of  all  Europe. 
Still,  with  a  characteristic  self-assurance,  she  watched 
from  her  Mayfair  bedroom  over  the  welfare  of  India. 
Still,  with  an  indefatigable  enthusiasm,  she  pushed  for- 
ward the  work,  which,  perhaps,  was  nearer  to  her  heart, 
more  completely  her  own,  than  all  the  rest — the  training 
of  nurses.  In  her  moments  of  deepest  depression,  when  her 
greatest  achievements  seemed  to  lose  their  lustre,  she 
thought  of  her  nurses,  and  was  comforted.  The  ways  of 
God,  she  found,  were  strange  indeed.  "How  inefficient 
I  was  in  the  Crimea,"  she  noted.  "Yet  He  has  raised  up 
from  it  trained  nursing." 

At  other  times  she  was  better  satisfied.  Looking  back, 
she  was  amazed  by  the  enormous  change  which,  since  her 
early  days,  had  come  over  the  whole  treatment  of  illness, 
the  whole  conception  of  public  and  domestic  health — a 
change  in  which,  she  knew,  she  had  played  her  part.  One 
of  her  Indian  admirers,  the  Aga  Khan,  came  to  visit  her. 

194 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  I95 

She  expatiated  on  the  marvellous  advances  she  had  lived 
to  see  in  the  management  o£  hospitals,  in  drainage,  in 
ventilation,  in  sanitary  work  of  every  kind.  There  was  a 
pause;  and  then,  "Do  you  think  you  are  improving?" 
asked  the  Aga  KJian.  She  was  a  little  taken  aback,  and 
said,  "What  do  you  mean  by  'improving'?"  He  replied, 
"Believing  more  in  God."  She  saw  that  he  had  a  view  of 
God  which  was  different  from  hers.  "A  most  interesting 
man,"  she  noted  after  the  interview;  "but  )^ou  could  never 
teach  him  sanitation." 

When  old  age  actually  came,  something  curious  hap- 
pened. Destiny,  having  waited  very  patiently,  played  a 
queer  trick  on  Miss  Nightingale.  The  benevolence  and 
public  spirit  of  that  long  life  had  only  been  equalled  by 
its  acerbity.  Her  virtue  had  dwelt  in  hardness,  and  she 
had  poured  forth  her  unstinted  usefulness  with  a  bitter 
smile  upon  her  lips.  And  now  the  sarcastic  years  brought 
the  proud  woman  her  punishment.  She  was  not  to  die  as 
she  had  lived.  The  sting  was  to  be  taken  out  of  her:  she 
was  to  be  made  soft;  she  was  to  be  reduced  to  compliance 
and  complacency.  The  change  came  gradually,  but  at  last 
it  was  unmistakable.  The  terrible  commander  who  had 
driven  Sidney  Herbert  to  his  death,  to  whom  Mr.  Jowett 
had  applied  the  words  of  Homer,  auorov  ueaavia — raging 
insatiably — now  accepted  small  compliments  with  grati- 
tude, and  indulged  in  sentimental  friendships  with  young 
girls.  The  author  of  ^'Notes  on  Nursing'' — that  classical 
compendium  of  the  besetting  sins  of  the  sisterhood,  drawn 
up  with  the  detailed  acrimony,  the  vindictive  relish,  of 
a  Swift — now  spent  long  hours  in  composing  sympathetic 
Addresses  to  Probationers,  whom  she  petted  and  wept 
over  in  turn.  And,  at  the  same  time  there  appeared  a 
corresponding  alteration  in  her  physical  mould.  The  thin, 


1^6  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

angular  woman,  with  her  haughty  eye  and  her  acrid 
mouth  had  vanished;  and  in  her  place  was  the  rounded 
bulky  form  of  a  fat  old  lady,  smiling  all  day  long.  Then 
something  else  became  visible.  The  brain  which  had  been 
steeled  at  Scutari  was  indeed,  literally,  growing  soft. 
Senility — an  ever  more  and  more  amiable  senility — de- 
scended. Towards  the  end,  consciousness  itself  grew  lost 
in  a  roseate  haze,  and  melted  into  nothingness.  It  was  just 
then,  three  years  before  her  death,  when  she  was  eighty- 
seven  years  old  (1907) ,  that  those  in  authority  bethought 
them  that  the  opportune  moment  had  come  for  bestowing 
a  public  honour  on  Florence  Nightingale.  She  was  offered 
the  Order  of  Merit.  That  Order,  whose  roll  contains, 
among  other  distinguished  names,  those  of  Sir  Laurence 
Alma  Tadema  and  Sir  Edward  Elgar,  is  remarkable  chiefly 
for  the  fact  that,  as  its  title  indicates,  it  is  bestowed 
because  its  recipient  deserves  it,  and  for  no  other  reason. 
Miss  Nightingale's  representatives  accepted  the  honour, 
and  her  name,  after  a  lapse  of  many  years,  once  more  ap- 
peared in  the  Press.  Congratulations  from  all  sides  came 
pouring  in.  There  was  a  universal  burst  of  enthusiasm — 
a  final  revivification  of  the  ancient  myth.  Among  her 
other  admirers,  the  German  Emperor  took  this  oppor- 
tunity of  expressing  his  feelings  towards  her.  "His 
Majesty,"  wrote  the  German  Ambassador,  "having  just 
brought  to  a  close  a  most  enjoyable  stay  in  the  beautiful 
neighbourhood  of  your  old  home  near  Romsey,  has  com- 
manded me  to  present  you  with  some  flowers  as  a  token 
of  his  esteem."  Then,  by  Royal  command,  the  Order  of 
Merit  was  brought  to  South  Street,  and  there  was  a  little 
ceremony  of  presentation.  Sir  Douglas  Dawson,  after  a 
short  speech,  stepped  forward,  and  handed  the  Insignia  of 
the  Order  to  Miss  Nightingale.  Propped  up  by  pillows, 


FLORENCE     NIGHTINGALE  197 

she  dimly  recognised  that  some  compliment  was  being 
paid  her.  "Too  kind — too  kind,"  she  murmured;  and  she 
was  not  ironical. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Sir  E.  Cook.  Lrfe  of  Florence  Nightingale. 

A.  W.  Kinglake.  The  Invasion  of  the  Crimea. 

Lord  Sidney  Godolphin  Osborne.  Scutari  and  its  Hospitals. 

S.  M.  Mitra.  Life  of  Sir  John  Hall. 

Lord  Stanmore.  Sidney  Herbert. 

Sir  G.  Douglas.  The  Pan  mure  Papers. 

Sir  H.  Maxwell.  Life  and  Letters  of  the  Fourth  Earl  of  Clar- 
endon. 

E.  Abbot  and  L.  Campbell.  Life  and  Letters  of  Benjtimin 
Jowett. 

A.  H.  Clough.  Poems  ana  HAemoir. 


DR.  ARNOLD 


DR.  ARNOLD 

In  1827  the  headmastership  of  Rugby  school  fell  vacant, 
and  it  became  necessary  for  the  twelve  trustees,  noblemen 
and  gentlemen  of  Warwickshire,  to  appoint  a  successor  to 
the  post.  Reform  was  in  the  air — political,  social,  religious; 
there  was  even  a  feeling  abroad  that  our  great  public 
schools  were  not  quite  all  that  they  should  be,  and  that 
some  change  or  other — no  one  precisely  knew  what — but 
S07ne  change  in  the  system  of  their  management,  was 
highly  desirable.  Thus  it  was  natural  that  when  the  twelve 
noblemen  and  gentlemen,  who  had  determined  to  be 
guided  entirely  by  the  merits  of  the  candidates,  found 
among  the  testimonials  pouring  in  upon  them  a  letter 
from  Dr.  Hawkins,  the  Provost  of  Oriel,  predicting  that 
if  they  elected  Mr.  Thomas  Arnold  he  would  "change  the 
face  of  education  all  through  the  public  schools  of  Eng- 
land," they  hesitated  no  longer:  obviously,  Mr.  Thomas 
Arnold  was  their  man.  He  was  elected  therefore;  received, 
as  was  fitting,  priest's  orders;  became,  as  was  no  less  fitting, 
a  Doctor  of  Divinity;  and  in  August,  1828,  took  up  the 
duties  of  his  office. 

All  that  was  known  of  the  previous  life  of  Dr.  Arnold 
seemed  to  justify  the  prediction  of  the  Provost  of  Oriel, 
and  the  choice  of  the  Trustees.  The  son  of  a  respectable 
Collector  of  Customs,  he  had  been  educated  at  Winchester 
and  at  Oxford,  where  his  industry  and  piety  had  given 
him  a  conspicuous  place  among  his  fellow-students.  It  is 
true  that,  as  a  schoolboy,  a  certain  pompousness  in  the 


202  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

Style  of  his  letters  home  suggested  to  the  more  clear- 
sighted among  his  relatives  the  possibility  that  young 
Thomas  might  grow  up  into  a  prig;  but,  after  all,  what  else 
could  be  expected  from  a  child  who,  at  the  age  of  three, 
had  been  presented  by  his  father,  as  a  reward  for  pro- 
ficiency in  his  studies,  with  the  twenty-four  volumes  of 
Smollett's  History  of  England?  His  career  at  Oxford  had 
been  a  distinguished  one,  winding  up  with  an  Oriel  fellow- 
ship. It  was  at  about  this  time  that  the  smooth  and  satis- 
factory progress  of  his  life  was  for  a  moment  interrupted: 
he  began  to  be  troubled  by  religious  doubts.  These  doubts, 
as  we  learn  from  one  of  his  contemporaries,  who  after- 
wards became  Mr.  Justice  Coleridge, 

were  not  low  nor  rationalistic  in  their  tendency,  according  to 
the  bad  sense  of  that  term;  there  was  no  indisposition  in  him 
to  believe  merely  because  the  article  transcended  his  reason; 
he  doubted  the  proof  and  the  interpretation  of  the  textual 
authority. 

In  his  perturbation,  Arnold  consulted  Keble,  who  was  at 
that  time  one  of  his  closest  friends,  and  a  Fellow  of  the 
same  College. 

The  subject  of  these  distressing  thoughts  [Keble  wrote  to  Cole- 
ridge] is  that  most  awful  one,  on  which  all  very  inquisitive 
reasoning  minds  are,  I  believe,  most  liable  to  such  temptations 
— I  mean,  the  doctrine  of  the  blessed  Trinity.  Do  not  start,  my 
dear  Coleridge;  I  do  not  believe  that  Arnold  has  any  serious 
scruples  of  the  tmderstanding  about  it,  but  it  is  a  defect  of  his 
mind  that  he  cannot  get  rid  of  a  certain  feeling  of  objections. 

What  was  to  be  done?  Keble's  advice  was  peremptory. 
Arnold  was  "bid  to  pause  in  his  inquiries  to  pray  ear- 
nestly for  help  and  light  from  above,  and  turn  himself 
more  strongly  than  ever  to  the  practical  duties  of  a  holy 


DR.     ARNOLD  203 

life."  He  did  so,  and  the  result  was  all  that  could  be  wished. 
He  soon  found  himself  blessed  with  perfect  peace  of 
mind,  and  a  settled  conviction. 

One  other  difficulty,  and  one  only,  we  hear  of,  at  this 
period  of  his  life.  His  dislike  of  early  rising  amounted, 
we  are  told,  "almost  to  a  constitutional  infirmity."  This 
weakness  too  he  overcame,  yet  not  quite  so  successfully 
as  his  doubts  upon  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity.  For  in 
after  life  the  Doctor  would  often  declare  "that  early 
rising  continued  to  be  a  daily  effort  to  him,  and  that  in 
this  instance  he  never  found  the  truth  of  the  usual  rule, 
that  all  things  are  made  easy  by  custom." 

He  married  young,  and  settled  down  in  the  country 
as  a  private  tutor  for  youths  preparing  for  the  Univer- 
sities. There  he  remained  for  ten  years — chappy,  busy,  and 
sufficiently  prosperous.  Occupied  chiefly  with  his  pupils, 
he  nevertheless  devoted  much  of  his  energy  to  wider 
interests.  He  delivered  a  series  of  sermons  in  the  parish 
church ;  and  he  began  to  write  a  History  of  Rome,  in  the 
hope,  as  he  said,  that  its  tone  might  be  such  "that  the 
strictest  of  what  is  called  the  Evangelical  party  would  not 
object  to  putting  it  into  the  hands  of  their  children." 
His  views  on  the  religious  and  political  condition  of  the 
country  began  to  crystallise.  He  was  alarmed  by  the  "want 
of  Christian  principle  in  the  literature  of  the  day,"  look- 
ing forward  anxiously  to  "the  approach  of  a  greater 
struggle  between  good  and  evil  than  the  world  has  yet 
seen";  and,  after  a  serious  conversation  with  Dr.  Whatelyi 
began  to  conceive  the  necessity  of  considerable  alterations 
in  the  Church  Establishment.  All  who  knew  him  during 
these  years  were  profoundly  impressed  by  the  earnestness 
of  his  religious  convictions  and  feelings,  which,  as  one 
observer  said,  "were  ever  bursting  forth."  It  was  impossible 


204  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

to  disregard  his  "deep  consciousness  of  the  invisible 
world"  and  "the  peculiar  feeling  of  love  and  adoration 
which  he  entertained  towards  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ/' 
"His  manner  of  awful  reverence  when  speaking  of  God 
or  of  the  Scriptures"  was  particularly  striking.  "No  one 
could  know  him  even  a  little,"  said  another  friend,  "and 
not  be  struck  by  his  absolute  wrestling  with  evil,  so  that 
like  St.  Paul  he  seemed  to  be  battling  with  the  wicked  one, 
^nd  yet  with  a  feeling  of  God's  help  on  his  side." 

Such  was  the  man  who,  at  the  age  of  thirty-three,  be- 
came headmaster  of  Rugby.  His  outward  appearance  was 
the  index  of  his  inward  character:  everything  about  him 
denoted  energy,  earnestness,  and  the  best  intentions.  His 
legs,  perhaps,  were  shorter  than  they  should  have  been; 
but  the  sturdy  athletic  frame,  especially  when  it  was 
swathed  (as  it  usually  was)  in  the  flowing  robes  of  a 
Doctor  of  Divinity,  was  full  of  an  imposing  vigour;  and 
his  head,  set  decisively  upon  the  collar,  stock  and  bands 
of  ecclesiastical  tradition,  clearly  belonged  to  a  person 
of  eminence.  The  thick,  dark  clusters  of  his  hair,  his 
bushy  eyebrows  and  curling  whiskers,  his  straight  nose 
and  bulky  chin,  his  firm  and  upward-curving  lower 
!ip — all  these  revealed  a  temperament  of  ardour  and 
determination.  His  eyes  were  bright  and  large;  they  were 
also  obviously  honest.  And  yet — why  was  it? — was  it  the 
lines  of  the  mouth  or  the  frown  on  the  forehead? — it  was 
hard  to  say,  but  it  was  unmistakable — there  was  a 
slightly  puzzled  look  upon  the  face  of  Dr.  Arnold. 

And  ceitainly  if  he  was  to  fulfil  the  prophecy  of  the 
Provost  of  Oriel,  the  task  before  him  was  sufficiently 
perplexing.  The  public  schools  of  those  days  were  still 
virgin  forests,  untouched  by  the  hand  of  reform.  Keate 
was  still  reigning  at  Eton ;  and  we  possess,  in  the  records 


DR.     ARNOLD  2O5 

of  his  pupils,  a  picture  of  the  public  school  education 
of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  in  its  most  character- 
istic state.  It  was  a  system  of  anarchy  tempered  by 
despotism.  Hundreds  of  boys,  herded  together  in  misceK 
laneous  boarding-houses,  or  in  that  grim  "Long  Cham- 
ber" at  whose  name  in  after  years  aged  statesmen  and 
warriors  would  turn  pale,  lived,  badgered  and  over-awed 
by  the  furious  incursions  of  an  irascible  little  old  man 
carrying  a  bundle  of  birch-twigs,  a  life  in  which  licensed 
barbarism  was  mingled  with  the  daily  and  hourly  study 
of  the  niceties  of  Ovidian  verse.  It  was  a  life  of  freedom 
and  terror,  of  prosody  and  rebellion,  of  interminable 
floggings  and  appalling  practical  jokes.  Keate  ruled, 
unaided — for  the  undermasters  were  few  and  of  no  ac- 
count— by  sheer  force  of  character.  But  there  were  times 
when  even  that  indomitable  will  was  overwhelmed  by 
the  flood  of  lawlessness.  Every  Sunday  afternoon  he  at- 
tempted to  read  sermons  to  the  whole  school  assembled; 
and  every  Sunday  afternoon  the  whole  school  assembled 
shouted  him  down.  The  scenes  in  Chapel  were  far  from 
edifying:  while  some  antique  Fellow  doddered  in  the 
pulpit,  rats  would  be  let  loose  to  scurry  among  the  legs 
of  the  exploding  boys.  But  next  morning  the  hand  of  dis- 
cipline would  re-assert  itself;  and  the  savage  ritual  of 
the  whipping-block  would  remind  a  batch  of  whimper- 
ing children  that,  though  sins  against  man  and  God  might 
be  forgiven  them,  a  false  quantity  could  only  be  expiated 
in  tears  and  blood. 

From  two  sides,  this  system  of  education  was  begin- 
ning to  be  assailed  by  the  awakening  public  opinion  of 
the  upper  middle  classes.  On  the  one  hand,  there  was  a 
desire  for  a  more  liberal  curriculum;  on  the  other,  there 
was  a  demand  for  a  higher  moral  tone.  The  growing 


206  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

Utilitarianism  of  the  age  viewed  with  impatience  a 
course  of  instruction  which  excluded  every  branch  of 
knowledge  except  classical  philology;  while  its  growing 
respectability  was  shocked  by  such  a  spectacle  of  dis- 
order and  brutality  as  was  afforded  by  the  Eton  of  Keate. 
"The  Public  Schools,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bowdler,  "are 
the  very  seats  and  nurseries  of  vice." 

Dr.  Arnold  agreed.  He  was  convinced  of  the  neces- 
sity for  reform.  But  it  was  only  natural  that  to  one  of 
his  temperament  and  education  it  should  have  been  the 
moral  rather  than  the  intellectual  side  of  the  question 
which  impressed  itself  upon  his  mind.  Doubtless  it  was 
important  to  teach  boys  something  more  than  the  bleak 
rigidities  of  the  ancient  tongues;  but  hov/  much  more 
important  to  instil  into  them  the  elements  of  character 
and  the  principles  of  conduct!  His  great  object,  through- 
out his  career  at  Rugby,  was,  as  he  repeatedly  said,  to 
"make  the  school  a  place  of  really  Christian  education." 
To  introduce  "a  religious  principle  into  edvication,"  was 
his  "most  earnest  wish,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend  when  he  first 
became  headmaster;  "but  to  do  this  would  be  to  succeed 
beyond  all  my  hopes;  it  would  be  a  happiness  so  great, 
that,  I  think,  the  world  would  yield  me  nothing  com- 
parable to  it."  And  he  was  constantly  impressing  these 
sentiments  upon  his  pupils.  "What  I  have  often  said  be- 
fore," he  told  them,  "I  repeat  now:  what  we  must  look 
for  here  is,  first,  religious  and  moral  principle;  secondly, 
gentlemanly  conduct;   thirdly,  intellectual  ability." 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Dr.  Arnold's  point  of 
view  was  shared  by  the  great  mass  of  English  parents. 
They  cared  very  little  for  classical  scholarship;  no  doubt 
they  would  be  pleased  to  find  that  their  sons  were  being 
instructed  in  history  or  in  French,  but  their  real  hopes. 


DR.     ARNOLD  207 

their  real  wishes,  were  of  a  very  different  kind.  "Shall  I 
tell  him  to  mind  his  work,  and  say  he's  sent  to  school  to 
make  himself  a  good  scholar?"  meditated  old  Squire 
Brown  when  he  was  sending  off  Tom  for  the  first  time  to 
Rugby. 

Well,  but  he  isn't  sent  to  school  for  that — at  any  rate,  not  for 
that  mainly.  I  don't  care  a  straw  for  Greek  particles,  or  the 
digamma;  no  more  does  his  mother.  What  is  he  sent  to  school 
for?  ...  If  he'll  only  turn  out  a  brave,  helpful,  truth-telling 
Englishman,  and  a  Christian,  that's  all  I  want. 

That  was  all;  and  it  was  that  that  Dr.  Arnold  set  him- 
self to  accomplish.  But  how  was  he  to  achieve  his  end? 
"Was  he  to  improve  the  character  of  his  pupils  by  gradu- 
ally spreading  round  them  an  atmosphere  of  cultivation 
and  intelligence?  By  bringing  them  into  close  and  friendly 
contact  with  civilised  men,  and  even,  perhaps  with  civi- 
lised women?  By  introducing  into  the  life  of  his  school 
all  that  he  could  of  the  humane,  enlightened,  and  pro- 
gressive elements  in  the  life  of  the  community?  On  the 
whole,  he  thought  not.  Such  considerations  left  him  cold, 
and  he  preferred  to  be  guided  by  the  general  laws  of 
Providence.  It  only  remained  to  discover  what  those 
general  laws  were.  He  consulted  the  Old  Testament,  and 
could  doubt  no  longer.  He  would  apply  to  his  scholars, 
as  he  himself  explained  to  them  in  one  of  his  sermons, 
"the  priiiciple  which  seemed  to  him  to  have  been  adopted 
in  the  training  of  the  childhood  of  the  human  race  itself." 
He  would  treat  the  boys  at  Rugby  as  Jehovah  had  treated 
the  Chosen  People:  he  would  found  a  theocracy;  and 
there  should  be  Judges  in  Israel. 

For  this  purpose,  the  system,  prevalent  in  most  of  the 
pub-V*  schools  of  the  day,  by  which  the  elder  boys  wer© 


208  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

deputed  to  keep  order  In  the  class-rooms,  lay  ready  to 
Dr.  Arnold's  hand.  He  found  the  "Praepostor"  a  mere 
disciplinary  convenience,  and  he  converted  him  into  an 
organ  of  government.  Every  boy  in  the  Sixth  Form  became 
ipso  facto  a  Praepostor,  with  powers  extending  over  every 
department  of  school  life;  and  the  Sixth  Form  as  a  body 
was  erected  into  an  authority  responsible  to  the  head- 
master, and  to  the  headmaster  alone,  for  the  internal 
management  of  the  school. 

This  was  the  means  by  which  Dr.  Arnold  hoped  to 
turn  Rugby  into  "a  place  of  really  Christian  education." 
The  boys  were  to  work  out  their  own  salvation,  like  the 
human  race.  He  himself,  involved  in  awful  grandeur, 
ruled  remotely,  through  his  chosen  instruments,  from 
an  inaccessible  heaven.  Remotely  and  yet  with  an  omni- 
present force.  As  the  Israelite  of  old  knew  that  his  al- 
mighty Lawgiver  might  at  any  moment  thunder  to  him 
from  the  whirlwind,  or  appear  before  his  very  eyes,  the 
visible  embodiment  of  power  or  wrath,  so  the  Rugby 
schoolboy  walked  in  a  holy  dread  of  some  sudden  mani- 
festation of  the  sweeping  gown,  the  majestic  tone,  the 
piercing  glance  of  Dr.  Arnold.  Among  the  lower  forms 
of  the  school  his  appearances  were  rare  and  transitory, 
and  upon  these  young  children  "the  chief  impression,"  we 
are  told,  "was  of  extreme  fear."  The  older  boys  saw  more 
of  him,  but  they  did  not  see  much.  Outside  the  Sixth 
Form,  no  part  of  the  school  came  into  close  intercourse 
with  him;  and  it  would  often  happen  that  a  boy  would 
leave  Rugby  without  having  had  any  personal  communi- 
cation with  him  at  all.  Yet  the  effect  which  he  produced 
upon  the  great  mass  of  his  pupils  was  remarkable.  The 
prestige  of  his  presence  and  the  elevation  of  his  senti- 
ments were  things  which  it  was  impossible  to  forget.  In 


DR.     ARNOLD  209 

class,  every  line  of  his  countenance,  every  shade  of  his 
manner  imprinted  themselves  indelibly  on  the  minds  of 
the  boys  who  sat  under  him.  One  of  these,  writing  long 
afterwards,  has  described,  in  phrases  still  impregnated, 
with  awe-struck  reverence,  the  familiar  details  of  the 
scene: — "the  glance  with  which  he  looked  round  in  the 
few  moments  of  silence  before  the  lesson  began,  and 
which  seemed  to  speak  his  sense  of  his  own  position" — 
"the  attitude  in  which  he  stood,  turning  over  the  pages 
of  Facciolati's  Lexicon,  or  Pole's  synopsis,  with  his  eye 
fixed  upon  the  boy  who  was  pausing  to  give  an  answer" — 
"the  pleased  look  and  the  cheerful  'thank  you,'  which  fol- 
lowed upon  a  successful  translation" — "the  fall  of  his 
countenance  with  its  deepening  severity,  the  stern  eleva- 
tion of  the  eyebrows,  the  sudden  'sit  down'  which  followed 
upon  the  reverse" — and  "the  startling  earnestness  with 
which  he  would  check  in  a  moment  the  slightest  approach 
to  levity." 

To  be  rebuked,  however  mildly,  by  Dr.  Arnold  was  a 
notable  experience.  One  boy  could  never  forget  how  he 
drew  a  distinction  between  "mere  amusement"  and  "such, 
as  encroached  on  the  next  day's  duties,"  nor  the  tone  of 
voice  with  which  the  Doctor  added  "and  then  it  imme- 
diately becomes  what  St.  Paul  calls  revelling."  Another 
remembered  to  his  dying  day  his  reproof  of  some  boys 
who  had  behaved  badly  during  prayers.  "Nowhere,"  said 
Dr.  Arnold,  "nowhere  is  Satan's  work  more  evidently 
manifest  than  in  turning  holy  things  to  ridicule."  On 
such  occasions,  as  another  of  his  pupils  described  it,  it 
was  impossible  to  avoid  "a  consciousness  almost  amount- 
fug  to  solemnity"  that,  "when  his  eye  was  upon  you,  he 
looked  into  your  inmost  heart." 

With  the  boys  In  the  Sixth  Form,  and  with  them  ilone, 


2IO  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

the  severe  formality  of  his  demeanour  was  to  some  degree 
relaxed.  It  was  his  wish,  in  his  relations  with  the  Praepos- 
tors, to  allow  the  Master  to  be  occasionally  merged  in  the 
Friend.  From  time  to  time,  he  chatted  with  them  in  a 
familiar  manner;  once  a  term  he  asked  them  to  dinner; 
and  during  the  summer  holidays  he  invited  them,  in 
rotation,  to  stay  with  him  in  Westmoreland. 

It  was  obvious  that  the  primitive  methods  of  discipline 
which  had  reached  their  apogee  under  the  dominion  of 
Keate  were  altogether  incompatible  with  Dr.  Arnold's 
vievv^  of  the  functions  of  a  headmaster  and  the  proper  gov- 
ernance of  a  public  school.  Clearly,  it  was  not  for  such 
as  he  to  demean  himself  by  bellowing  and  cuffing,  by 
losing  his  temper  once  an  hour,  and  by  wreaking  his 
vengeance  with  indiscriminate  flagellations.  Order  must 
be  kept  in  other  ways.  The  worst  boys  were  publicly  ex- 
pelled; many  were  silently  removed;  and,  when  Dr. 
Arnold  considered  that  a  flogging  was  necessary,  he  ad- 
ministered it  with  gravity.  For  he  had  no  theoretical  ob- 
jection to  corporal  punishment.  On  the  contrary,  he 
supported  it,  as  was  his  wont,  by  an  appeal  to  general 
principles.  "There  is,"  he  said,  "an  essential  inferiority  in 
a  boy  as  compared  with  a  man";  and  hence  "where  there 
is  no  equality,  the  exercise  of  superiority  implied  in  per- 
sonal chastisement"  inevitably  followed.  He  was  par- 
ticularly disgusted  by  the  view  that  "personal  correction," 
as  he  phrased  it,  was  an  insult  or  a  degradation  to  the  boy 
upon  whom  it  was  inflicted;  and  to  accustom  young  boys 
to  think  so  appeared  to  him  to  be  "positively  mischievous." 

At  an  age  [he  wrote]  when  it  is  almost  impossible  to  find  a 
true,  manly  sense  of  the  degradation  of  guilt  or  faults,  where 
is  the  wisdom  of  encouraging  a  fantastic  sense  of  the  degrada- 


DR.     ARNOLD  211 

tion  or  personal  correction?  What  can  be  more  false,  or  more 
adverse  to  the  simplicity,  sobriety,  and  humbleness  of  mind 
which  are  the  best  ornaments  of  youth,  and  offer  the  best  prom- 
ise of  a  noble  manhood? 

One  had  not  to  look  far,  he  added,  for  "the  fruits  of  such 
a  system."  In  Paris,  during  the  Revolution  of  1830,  an 
ojSScer  observed  a  boy  of  twelve  insulting  the  soldiers  and 

though  the  action  was  then  raging,  merely  struck  him  with 
the  flat  part  of  his  sword,  as  the  fit  chastisement  for  boyish 
impertinence.  But  the  boy  had  been  taught  to  consider  his  per- 
son sacred,  and  that  a  blow  was  a  deadly  insult;  he  therefore 
followed  the  officer,  and  having  watched  his  opportunity,  took 
deliberate  aim  at  him  with  a  pistol  and  murdefed  him. 

Such  were  the  alarming  results  of  insufficient  whipping. 

Dr.  Arnold  did  not  apply  this  doctrine  to  the  Prae- 
postors; but  the  boys  in  the  lower  parts  of  the  school  felt 
its  benefits  with  a  double  force.  The  Sixth  Form  was  not 
only  excused  from  chastisement;  it  was  given  the  right 
to  chastise.  The  younger  children,  scourged  both  by  Dr. 
Arnold  and  by  the  elder  children,  were  given  every  op- 
portunity of  acquiring  the  simplicity,  sobriety,  and 
humbleness  of  mind,  which  are  the  best  ornaments  of 
youth. 

In  the  actual  sphere  of  teaching,  Dr.  Arnold's  reforms 
were  tentative  and  few.  He  introduced  modern  history, 
modern  languages,  and  mathematics  into  the  school  cur- 
riculum; but  the  results  were  not  encouraging.  He  de- 
voted to  the  teaching  of  history  one  hour  a  week;  yet, 
though  he  took  care  to  inculcate  in  these  lessons  a  whole- 
some hatred  of  moral  evil,  and  to  point  out  from  time  to 
Time  the  Indications  of  the  providential  government  of 
the  world,  his  pupils  never  seemed  to  make  much  progress 


212  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

in  the  subject.  Could  it  have  been  that  the  time  allotted 
to  it  was  insufficient?  Dr.  Arnold  had  some  suspicions  that 
this  might  be  the  case.  With  modern  languages  there  was 
the  same  difficulty.  Here  his  hopes  were  certainly  not 
excessive.  "I  assume  it,"  he  wrote,  "as  the  foundation  of 
all  my  view  of  the  case,  that  boys  at  a  public  school  never 
will  learn  to  speak  or  pronounce  French. well,  under  any 
circumstances."  It  would  be  enough  if  they  could  "learn 
it  grammatically  as  a  dead  language."  But  even  this  they 
very  seldom  managed  to  do. 

I  know  too  well  [he  was  obliged  to  confess]  that  most  of  the 
boys  would  pass  a  very  poor  examination  even  in  French  gram- 
mar. But  so  it  is  with  their  mathematics;  and  so  it  will  be  with 
any  branch  of  knowledge  that  is  taught  but  seldom,  and  is  felt 
to  be  quite  subordinate  to  the  boys'  main  study. 

The  boys'  main  study  remained  the  dead  languages  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  That  the  classics  should  form  the 
basis  of  all  teaching  was  an  axiom  with  Dr.  Arnold. 
"The  study  of  language,"  he  said,  "seems  to  me  as  if 
it  was  given  for  the  very  purpose  of  forming  the  human 
mind  in  youth;  and  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages  seem 
the  very  instruments  by  which  this  is  to  be  effected." 
Certainly,  there  was  something  providential  about  it — 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  teacher  as  well  as  of  the 
taught.  If  Greek  and  Latin  had  not  been  "given"  in  that 
convenient  manner.  Dr.  Arnold,  who  had  spent  his  life 
in  acquiring  those  languages,  might  have  discovered  that 
he  had  acquired  them  in  vain.  As  it  was,  he  could  set  the 
noses  of  his  pupils  to  the  grindstone  of  syntax  and  prosody 
with  a  clear  conscience.  Latin  verses  and  Greek  preposi- 
tions divided  between  them  the  labours  of  the  week.  As 
time  went  on,  he  became,  he  declared,  "increasingly  con- 


DR.     ARNOLD  2IJ 

vinced  that  it  is  not  knowledge,  but  the  means  of  gaining 
knowledge  which  I  have  to  teach."  The  reading  of  the 
school  was  devoted  almost  entirely  to  selected  passages 
from  the  prose  writers  of  antiquity.  "Boys,"  he  remarked, 
"do  not  like  poetry."  Perhaps  his  own  poetical  taste  was 
a  little  dubious;  at  any  rate,  it  is  certain  that  he  con- 
sidered the  Greek  Tragedians  greatly  overrated,  and  that 
he  ranked  Propertius  as  "an  indifferent  poet."  As  for 
Aristophanes,  owing  to  his  strong  moral  disapprobation, 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  read  him  until  he  was  forty, 
when,  it  is  true,  he  was  much  struck  by  the  "Clouds." 
But  Juvenal  the  Doctor  could  never  bring  himself  to 
read  at  all. 

Physical  science  was  not  taught  at  Rugby.  Since,  in 
Dr.  Arnold's  opinion,  it  was  "too  great  a  subject  to  be 
studied  £u  napipytj^,"  obviously  only  two  alternatives  were 
possible: — it  must  either  take  the  chief  place  in  the  school 
curriculum,  or  it  must  be  left  out  altogether.  Before  such 
a  choice,  Dr.  Arnold  did  not  hesitate  for  a  moment. 

Rather  than  have  physical  science  the  principal  thing  in  my 
son's  mind  [he  exclaimed  in  a  letter  to  a  friend],  I  would  gladly 
have  him  think  that  the  sun  went  round  the  earth,  and  that  the 
stars  were  so  many  spangles  set  in  the  bright  blue  firmament. 
Surely  the  one  thing  needful  for  a  Christian  and  an  Englishman 
to  study  is  Christian  and  moral  and  political  philosophy. 

A  Christian  and  an  Englishman!  After  all,  it  was  not 
in  the  class-room,  nor  in  the  boarding-house,  that  the 
essential  elements  of  instruction  could  be  imparted  which 
should  qualify  the  youthful  neophyte  to  deserve  those 
names.  The  final,  the  fundamental  lesson  could  only  be 
taught  in  the  school  chapel;  in  the  school  chapel  the  centre 
of  Dr,  Arnold's  system  of  education  was  inevitably  fixed. 


214  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

There,  too,  the  Doctor  himself  appeared  in  the  plenitude 
of  his  dignity  and  his  enthusiasm.  There,  with  the  morn- 
ing sun  shining  on  the  freshly  scrubbed  faces  of  his  three 
hundred  pupils,  or,  in  the  dusk  of  evening,  through  a 
glimmer  of  candles,  his  stately  form,  rapt  in  devotion  or 
vibrant  with  exhortation,  would  dominate  the  scene. 
Every  phase  of  the  Church  service  seemed  to  receive  its 
supreme  expression  in  his  voice,  his  attitude,  his  look. 
During  the  Te  Deum,  his  whole  countenance  would  light 
up;  and  he  read  the  Psalms  with  such  conviction  that 
boys  would  often  declare,  after  hearing  him,  that  they 
understood  them  now  for  the  first  time.  It  was  his  opinion 
that  the  creeds  in  public  worship  ought  to  be  used  as 
triumphant  hymns  of  thanksgiving,  and,  in  accordance 
with  this  view,  although  unfortunately  he  possessed  no 
natural  gift  for  music,  he  regularly  joined  in  the  chanting 
of  the  Nicene  Creed  with  a  visible  animation  and  a 
peculiar  fervour,  which  it  was  impossible  to  forget.  The 
Communion  service  he  regarded  as  a  direct  and  special 
counterpoise  to  that  false  communion  and  false  com- 
panionship, which,  as  he  often  observed,  was  a  great  source 
of  mischief  in  the  school;  and  he  bent  himself  down  with 
glistening  eyes,  and  trembling  voice,  and  looks  of  paternal 
solicitude,  in  the  administration  of  the  elements.  Nor  was 
it  only  the  different  sections  of  the  liturgy,  but  the  very 
divisions  of  the  ecclesiastical  year  that  reflected  themselves 
in  his  demeanour;  the  most  careless  observer,  we  are  told, 
"could  not  fail  to  be  struck  by  the  triumphant  exulta- 
tion of  his  whole  manner  on  Easter  Sunday";  though  it 
needed  a  more  familiar  eye  to  discern  the  subtleties  in  his 
bearing  which  were  produced  by  the  approach  of  Advent, 
and  the  solemn  thoughts  which  it  awakened  of  the  ad- 


DR.     ARNOLD  215 

vance  of  human  life,  the  progress  of  the  human  race,  and 
the  condition  of  the  Church  of  England. 

At  the  end  of  the  evening  service  the  culminating  mo- 
ment of  the  v/eek  had  come:  the  Doctor  delivered  his 
sermon.  It  was  not  until  then,  as  all  who  had  known  him 
agreed,  it  was  not  until  one  had  heard  and  seen  him  in 
the  pulpit,  that  one  could  fully  realise  what  it  was  to 
be  face  to  face  with  Dr.  Arnold.  The  whole  character 
of  the  man — so  we  are  assured — stood  at  last  revealed. 
His  congregation  sat  in  fixed  attention  (with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  younger  boys,  whose  thoughts  occasionally 
wandered),  while  he  propounded  the  general  principles 
both  of  his  own  conduct  and  that  of  the  Almighty,  or 
indicated  the  bearing  of  the  incidents  of  Jewish  history 
in  the  sixth  century  b.c  upon  the  conduct  of  English 
schoolboys  in  1830.  Then,  more  than  ever,  his  deep  con- 
sciousness of  the  invisible  world  became  evident;  then, 
more  than  ever,  he  seemed  to  be  battling  with  the  wicked 
one.  For  his  sermons  ran  on  the  eternal  themes  of  the 
darkness  of  evil,  the  craft  of  the  tempter,  the  punishment 
of  obliquity,  and  he  justified  the  persistence  with  which 
he  dwelt  upon  these  painful  subjects  by  an  appeal  to 
a  general  principle:  "the  spirit  of  Elijah,"  he  said,  "must 
ever  precede  the  spirit  of  Christ."  The  impression  pro- 
duced upon  the  boys  was  remarkable.  It  was  noticed 
that  even  the  most  careless  would  sometimes,  during  the 
course  of  the  week,  refer  almost  involuntarily  to  the 
sermon  of  the  past  Sunday,  as  a  condemnation  of  what 
they  were  doing.  Others  were  heard  to  wonder  how  it 
was  that  the  Doctor's  preaching,  to  which  they  had  at- 
tended at  the  time  so  assiduously,  seemed,  after  all,  to  have 
a  small  effect  upon  what  they  did.  An  old  gentleman, 
recalling   those  vanished  hours,   tried   to   recapture  in 


2l6  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

words  his  state  of  mind  as  he  sat  in  the  darkened  chapel, 
while  Dr.  Arnold's  sermons,  with  their  high-toned  ex- 
hortations, their  grave  and  sombre  messages  of  incalcula- 
ble import,  clothed,  like  Dr.  Arnold's  body  in  its  gown 
and  bands,  in  the  traditional  stiffness  of  a  formal  phrase- 
ology, reverberated  through  his  adolescent  |ars.  "I  used," 
he  said,  "to  listen  to  those  sermons  from  first  to  last  with 
a  kind  of  awe." 

His  success  was  not  limited  to  his  pupils  and  imme- 
diate auditors.  The  sermons  were  collected  into  five  large 
volumes;  they  were  the  first  of  their  kind;  and  they 
were  received  with  admiration  by  a  wide  circle  of  pious 
readers.  Queen  Victoria  herself  possessed  a  copy,  in  which 
several  pasages  were  marked  in  pencil,  by  the  royal  hand. 

Dr.  Arnold's  energies  were  by  no  means  exhausted 
by  his  duties  at  Rugby.  He  became  known,  not  merely 
as  a  Headmaster,  but  as  a  public  man.  He  held  decided 
opinions  upon  a  large  number  of  topics;  and  he  enunci- 
ated them — based  as  they  were  almost  invariably  upon 
general  principles — in  pamphlets,  in  prefaces,  and  in 
magazine  articles,  with  an  impressive  self-confidence.  He 
was,  as  he  constantly  declared,  a  Liberal.  In  his  opinion, 
by  the  very  constitution  of  human  nature,  the  principles 
of  progress  and  reform  had  been  those  of  wisdom  and 
justice  in  every  age  of  the  world — except  one:  that  which 
had  preceded  the  fall  of  man  from  Paradise.  Had  he 
lived  then.  Dr.  Arnold  would  have  been  a  Conservative. 
As  it  was,  his  hberalism  was  tempered  by  an  "abhorrence 
of  the  spirit  of  1789,  of  the  American  War,  of  the  French 
Economistes,  and  of  the  English  Whigs  of  the  latter  part 
of  the  seventeeth  century";  and  he  always  entertained  a 
profound  respect  for  the  hereditary  peerage.  It  might  al- 


DR.     ARNOLD  ZIJ 

most  be  said,  in  fact,  that  he  was  an  orthodox  Liberal. 
He  believed  in  toleration,  too,  within  limits;  that  is  to 
say,  in  the  toleration  of  those  with  whom  he  agreed.  "I 
would  give  James  Mill  as  much  opportunity  for  advocat- 
ing his  opinion,"  he  said,  "as  is  consistent  with  a  voyage 
to  Botany  Bay."  He  had  become  convinced  of  the  duty 
of  sympathising  with  the  lower  orders  ever  since  he  had 
made  a  serious  study  of  the  Epistle  of  St.  James;  but  he 
perceived  clearly  that  the  lower  orders  fell  into  two 
classes,  and  that  it  was  necessary  to  distinguish  between 
them.  There  were  the  "good  poor" — and  there  were  the 
others.  "I  am  glad  that  you  have  made  acquaintance 
with  some  of  the  good  poor,"  he  wrote  to  a  Cambridge 
undergraduate;  "I  quite  agree  with  you  that  it  is  most 
instructive  to  visit  them."  Dr.  Arnold  himself  occasion- 
ally visited  them,  in  Rugby,  and  the  condescension  with 
which  he  shook  hands  with  old  men  and  women  of  the 
working  classes  was  long  remembered  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. As  for  the  others,  he  regarded  them  with  horror 
and  alarm. 

The  disorders  in  our  social  state  [he  wrote  to  the  Chevalier 
Bunsen  in  1834]  appear  to  me  to  continue  unabated.  You  have 
heard,  I  doubt  not,  of  the  Trades'  Unions;  a  fearful  engine  of 
mischief,  ready  to  riot  or  to  assassinate;  and  I  see  no  counter- 
acting power. 

On  the  whole,  his  view  of  the  condition  of  England 
was  a  gloomy  one.  He  recommended  a  correspondent  to 
read 

Isaiah  iii.,  v.,  xxii.;  Jeremiah  v.,  xxii.,  xxx.;  Amos  iv.;  and  Ha- 
bakkuk  ii.,  [adding]  you  will  be  struck,  I  think,  with  the  close 
resemblance  of  our  own  state  with  that  of  the  Jews  before  the 
second  destruction  of  Jerusalem. 


2l8  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

When  he  was  told  that  the  gift  of  tongues  had  descended 
on  the  Irvingites  at  Glasgow,  he  was  not  surprised.  "I 
should  take  it,"  he  said,  "merely  as  a  sign  of  the  coming 
of  the  day  of  the  Lord."  And  he  was  convinced  that  the 
day  of  the  Lord  tucis  coming — "the  termination  of  one 
of  the  great  alcoveg  of  the  human  race."  Of  that  he  had 
no  doubt  whatever;  wherever  he  looked  he  saw  "calami- 
ties, wars,  tumults,  pestilences,  earthquakes,  etc.,  all  mark- 
ing the  time  of  one  of  God's  peculiar  seasons  of  visita- 
tions." His  only  uncertainty  was  whether  this  termination 
of  an  alcbv  would  turn  out  to  be  the  absolutely  final  one; 
but  that  he  beheved  "no  created  being  knows  or  can 
know."  In  any  case  he  had  "not  the  sHghtest  expectation 
of  what  is  commonly  meant  by  the  Millennium."  And  his 
only  consolation  was  that  he  preferred  the  present  min- 
istry, inefficient  as  it  was,  to  the  Tories. 

He  had  planned  a  great  work  on  Church  and  State, 
in  which  he  intended  to  lay  bare  the  causes  and  to  point 
out  the  remedies  of  the  evils  which  afflicted  society.  Its 
theme  was  to  be,  not  the  alliance  or  union,  but  the  ab- 
solute identity  of  the  Church  and  the  State;  and  he  felt 
sure  that  if  only  this  fundamental  truth  were  fully  realised 
by  the  public,  a  general  reformation  would  follow.  Un- 
fortunately, however,  as  time  went  on,  the  public  seemed 
to  realise  it  less  and  less.  In  spite  of  his  protests,  not  only 
were  Jews  admitted  to  Parliament,  but  a  Jew  was  actually 
appointed  a  governor  of  Christ's  Hospital;  and  Scripture 
was  not  made  an  obligatory  subject  at  the  London  Uni- 
versity. 

There  was  one  point  in  his  theory  which  was  not  quite 
plain  to  Dr.  Arnold.  If  Church  and  State  were  abso- 
lutely identical,  it  became  important  to  decide  precisely 
which  classes  of  persons  were  to  be  excluded,  owing  to 


DR.     ARNOLD  219 

their  beliefs,  from  the  community.  Jews,  for  instance, 
were   decidedly   outside  the   pale;    while   Dissenters — so 
Dr.   Arnold  argued — were  as  decidedly  within  it.  But 
what  was  the  position  of  the  Unitarians?  Were  they,  or 
were  they  not.  Members  of  the  Church  of  Christ?  This 
was  one  of  those  puzzling  questions  which  deepened  the 
frown  upon  the  Doctor's  forehead  and  intensified  the 
pursing  of  his  lips.  He  thought  long  and  earnestly  upon 
the  subject;  he  wrote  elaborate  letters  on  it  to  various 
correspondents;  but  his  conclusions  remained  indefinite. 
"My  great  objection  to  Unitarianism,"  he  wrote,  "in  its 
present  form  in  England,  is  that  it  makes  Christ  virtually 
dead."  Yet  he  expressed  "a  fervent  hope  that  if  we  could 
get  rid  of  the  Athanasian  Creed  many  good  Unitarians 
would  join  their  fellow-Christians  in  bowing  the  knee 
to  Him  who  is  Lord  both  of  the  dead  and  the  living." 
Amid  these  perplexities,  it  was  disquieting  to  learn  that 
"Unitarianism  is  becoming  very  prevalent  in  Boston." 
He  inquired  anxiously  as  to  its  "complexion"  there;  but 
received  no  illuminating  answer.  The  whole  matter  con- 
tinued to  be  wrapped  in  a  painful  obscurity:  there  were, 
he  believed,  Unitarians  and  Unitarians;  and  he  could  say 
no  more. 

In  the  meantime,  pending  the  completion  of  his  great 
work,  he  occupied  himself  with  putting  forward  various 
suggestions  of  a  practical  kind.  He  advocated  the  res- 
toration of  the  Order  of  Deacons,  which,  he  observed, 
had  long  been  "quoad  the  reality,  dead";  for  he  believed 
that  "some  plan  of  this  sort  might  be  the  small  end  of 
the  wedge,  by  which  Antichrist  might  hereafter  be  burst 
asunder  like  the  Dragon  of  Bel's  temple."  But  the  Order 
of  Deacons  was  never  restored,  and  Dr.  Arnold  turned 
his  attention  elsewhere,  urging  in  a  weighty  pamphlet 


220  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

the  desirability  of  authorising  mihtary  officers,  in  con- 
gregations where  it  was  impossible  to  procure  the  presence 
of  clergy,  to  administer  the  Eucharist,  as  well  as  Baptism. 
It  was  v/ith  the  object  of  laying  such  views  as  these  before 
the  public — "to  tell  them  plainly,"  as  he  said,  "the  evils 
that  exist,  and  lead  them,  if  I  can,  to  their  causes  and 
remedies," — that  he  started,  in  1832,  a  weekly  newspaper, 
The  Englisbman's  Register.  The  paper  was  not  a  success, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  set  out  to  improve  its  readers 
morally  and  that  it  preserved,  in  every  article,  an 
avowedly  Christian  tone.  After  a  few  weeks,  and  after 
he  had  spent  upon  it  more  than  £200,  it  came  to  an  end. 
Altogether,  the  prospect  was  decidedly  discouraging. 
After  all  his  efforts,  the  absolute  identity  of  Church  and 
State  remained  as  unrecognised  as  ever. 

So  deeply  [he  was  at  last  obliged  to  confess]  is  the  distinction 
between  the  Church  and  the  State  seated  in  our  laws,  our  lan- 
guage, and  our  very  notions,  that  nothing  less  than  a  miraculous 
interposition  of  God's  Providence  seems  capable  of  eradicating  it. 

Dr.  Arnold  waited  in  vain. 

But  he  did  not  wait  in  idleness.  He  attacked  the  same 
question  from  another  side:  he  explored  the  writings  of 
the  Christian  Fathers,  and  began  to  compose  a  com- 
mentary on  the  New  Testament.  In  his  view,  the  Scrip- 
tures were  as  fit  a  subject  as  any  other  book  for  free 
inquiry  and  the  exercise  of  the  individual  judgment,  and 
it  was  in  this  spirit  that  he  set  about  the  interpretation 
of  them.  He  was  not  afraid  of  facing  apparent  difficul- 
ties, of  admitting  inconsistencies,  or  even  errors,  in  the 
sacred  text.  Thus  he  observed  that  "in  Chronicles  xi. 
20,  and  xiii.  2,  there  is  a  decided  difference  in  the  parentage 
of   Abijah's    mother; — which,"    he    added,    "is   curious 


DR.     ARNOLD  221 

on  any  supposition."  And  at  one  time  he  had  serious 
doubts  as  to  the  authorship  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews. 
But  he  was  able,  on  various  problematical  points,  to  sug- 
gest interesting  solutions.  At  first,  for  instance,  he  could 
not  but  be  startled  by  the  cessation  of  miracles  in  the 
early  Church;  but  on  consideration  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  this  phenomenon  might  be  "truly  accounted 
for  by  the  supposition  that  none  but  the  Apostles  ever  con- 
ferred miraculous  powers,  and  that  therefore  they  ceased 
of  course  after  one  generation."  Nor  did  he  fail  to  base  his 
exegesis,  whenever  possible,  upon  an  appeal  to  general 
principles.  One  of  his  admirers  points  out  how  Dr.  Arnold 

vindicated  God's  command  to  Abraham  to  sacrifice  his  son, 
and  to  the  Jews  to  exterminate  the  nations  of  Canaan,  by 
explaining  the  principles  on  which  these  commands  were  given, 
and  their  reference  to  the  moral  state  of  those  to  whom  they 
were  addressed;  thereby  educing  light  out  of  darkness,  un- 
ravelling the  thread  of  God's  religious  education  of  the  human 
race,  and  holding  up  God's  marvellous  counsels  to  the  devout 
wonder  and  meditation  of  the  thoughtful  believer. 

There  was  one  of  his  friends,  however,  who  did  not 
share  this  admiration  for  the  Doctor's  methods  of  Scrip- 
tural interpretation.  W.  G.  Ward,  while  still  a  young  man 
at  Oxford,  had  come  under  his  influence,  and  had  been 
for  some  time  one  of  his  most  enthusiastic  disciples.  But 
the  star  of  Newman  was  rising  at  the  University;  Ward 
soon  felt  the  attraction  of  that  magnetic  power;  and  his 
belief  in  his  old  teacher  began  to  waver.  It  was,  in  par- 
ticular. Dr.  Arnold's  treatment  of  the  Scriptures  which 
filled  Ward's  argumentative  mind,  at  first  with  distrust, 
and  at  last  with  positive  antagonism.  To  subject  the  Bible 
to  free  inquiry,  to  exercise  upon  it  the  criticism  of  the 


222  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

individual  judgment — where  might  not  such  methods 
lead?  Who  could  say  that  they  would  not  end  in  Socinian- 
ism? — nay,  in  Atheism  itself?  If  the  text  of  Scripture 
was  to  be  submitted  to  the  searchings  of  human  reason, 
how  could  the  question  of  its  inspiration  escape  the  same 
tribunal?  And  the  proofs  of  revelation,  and  even  of  the 
existence  of  God?  What  human  faculty  was  capable  of 
deciding  upon  such  enormous  questions?  And  would  not 
the  logical  result  be  a  condition  of  universal  doubt? 

On  a  very  moderate  computation  [Ward  argued]  five  times  the 
amount  of  a  man's  natural  life  inight  qualify  a  person  endowed 
with  extraordinary  genius  to  have  some  faint  notion  (though 
even  this  we  doubt)  on  which  side  truth  lies. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  the  slightest  doubt  of  Dr.  Arnold's 
orthodoxy — Dr.  Arnold,  whose  piety  was  universally 
recognised- — Dr.  Arnold,  who  had  held  up  to  scorn  and 
execration  Strauss's  "Leben  Jesu"  without  reading  it. 
What  Ward  complained  of  was  the  Doctor's  lack  of  logic, 
not  his  lack  of  fafth.  Could  he  not  see  that  if  he  really 
carried  out  his  own  principles  to  a  logical  conclusion  he 
would  eventually  find  himself,  precisely,  in  the  arms  of 
Strauss?  The  young  man,  whose  personal  friendship  re- 
mained unshaken,  determined  upon  an  interview,  and 
went  down  to  Rugby  primed  with  first  principles,  syl- 
logisms, and  dilemmas.  Finding  that  the  headmaster  was 
busy  in  school,  he  spent  the  afternoon  reading  novels  on 
the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room.  When  at  last,  late  in  the 
evening,  the  Doctor  returned,  tired  out  with  his  day's 
work.  Ward  fell  upon  him  with  all  his  vigour.  The  con- 
test was  long  and  furious;  it  was  also  entirely  inconclusive. 
When  it  was  over,  Ward,  with  none  of  his  brilliant  argu- 


DR.     ARNOLD  22} 

ments  disposed  of,  and  none  of  his  probing  questions 
satisfactorily  answered,  returned  to  the  University,  to 
plunge  headlong  into  the  vortex  of  the  Oxford  Move- 
ment; and  Dr.  Arnold,  worried,  perplexed,  and  exhausted, 
went  to  bed,  where  he  remained  for  the  next  thirty-six 
hours. 

The  Commentary  on  the  New  Testament  was  never 
finished,  and  the  great  work  on  Church  and  State  itself 
remained  a  fragment.  Dr.  Arnold's  active  mind  was 
diverted  from  political  and  theological  speculations  to 
the  study  of  philology  and  to  historical  composition.  His 
.Roman  History,  which  he  regarded  as  "the  chief  monu- 
ment of  his  historical  fame"  was  based  partly  upon  the 
researches  of  Niebuhr,  and  partly  upon  an  aversion  to 
Gibbon. 

My  highest  ambition  [he  wrote]  is  to  make  my  history  the  very 
reverse  of  Gibbon — in  this  respect,  that  whereas  the  whole 
spirit  of  his  work,  from  its  low  morality,  is  hostile  to  religion, 
without  speaking  directly  against  it,  so  my  greatest  desire  would 
be,  in  my  History,  by  its  high  morals  and  its  general  tone,  to 
be  of  use  to  the  cause  without  actually  bringing  it  forward. 

These  efforts  were  rewarded,  in  1841,  by  the  Professor- 
ship of  Modern  History  at  Oxford.  Meanwhile,  he  was 
engaged  in  the  study  of  the  Sanscrit  and  Sclavonic  lan- 
guages, bringing  out  an  elaborate  edition  of  Thucydides, 
and  carrying  on  a  voluminous  correspondence  upon  a 
multitude  of  topics  with  a  large  circle  of  men  of  learning. 
At  his  death,  his  published  works,  composed  during  such 
intervals  as  he  could  spare  from  the  management  of  a 
great  public  school,  filled,  besides  a  large  number  of 
pamphlets  and  articles,  no  less  than  seventeen  volumes. 


224  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Carlyle,  after  a  visit  to  Rugby, 
should  have  characterised  Dr.  Arnold  as  a  man  of  "un- 
hasting,  unresting  diligence." 

Mrs.  Arnold,  too,  no  doubt  agreed  with  Carlyle.  Dur- 
ing the  first  eight  years  of  their  married  life,  she  bore  him 
six  children;  and  four  more  were  to  follow.  In  this  large 
and  growing  domestic  circle  his  hours  of  relaxation  were 
spent.  There  those  who  had  only  known  him  in  his  pro- 
fessional capacity  were  surprised  to  find  him  displaying 
the  tenderness  and  jocosity  of  a  parent.  The  dignified  and 
stern  headmaster  was  actually  seen  to  dandle  infants  and 
to  caracole  upon  the  hearthrug  on  all  fours.  Yet,  we  are 
told,  "the  sense  of  his  authority  as  a  father  was  never  lost 
in  his  playfulness  as  a  companion."  On  more  serious  oc- 
casions, the  voice  of  the  spiritual  teacher  sometimes  made 
itself  heard.  An  intimate  friend  described  how  "on  a 
comparison  having  been  made  in  his  family  circle,  which 
seemed  to  place  St.  Paul  above  St.  John,"  the  tears  rushed 
to  the  Doctor's  eyes  and  how,  repeating  one  of  the  verses 
from  St.  John,  he  begged  that  the  comparison  might  never 
again  be  made.  The  longer  holidays  were  spent  in  West- 
moreland, where,  rambling  with  his  offspring  among  the 
mountams,  gathering  wild  flowers,  and  pointing  out  the 
beauties  of  Nature,  Dr.  Arnold  enjoyed,  as  he  himself 
would  often  say,  "an  almost  awful  happiness."  Music 
he  did  not  appreciate,  though  he  occasionally  desired  his 
eldest  boy,  Matthew,  to  sing  him  the  Confirmation  Hymn 
of  Dr.  Hinds,  to  which  he  had  become  endeared,  owing 
to  its  use  in  Rugby  chapel.  But  his  lack  of  ear  was,  he 
considered,  amply  recompensed  by  his  love  of  flowers: 
"they  are  my  music,"  he  declared.  Yet,  in  such  a  matter, 
he  was  careful  to  refrain  from  an  excess  of  feeHng,  such 


DR.     ARNOLD  225 

as,  in  his  opinion,  marked  the  famous  hnes  of  Words- 
worth : 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  he  too  deep  for  tears. 

He  found  the  sentiment  morbid.  "Life,"  he  said,  "is  not 
long  enough  to  take  such  intense  interest  in  objects  in 
themselves  so  httle."  As  for  the  animal  world,  his  feehngs 
towards  it  were  of  a  very  different  cast.  "The  whole  sub- 
ject," he  said,  "of  the  brute  creation  is  to  me  one  of  such 
painful  mystery,  that  I  dare  not  approach  it."  The 
Unitarians  themselves  were  a  less  distressing  thought. 

Once  or  twice  he  found  time  to  visit  the  Continent, 
and  the  letters  and  journals  recording  in  minute  detail 
his  reflections  and  impressions  in  France  or  Italy  show 
us  that  Dr.  Arnold  preserved,  in  spite  of  the  distractions 
of  foreign  scenes  and  foreign  manners,  his  accustomed 
habits  of  mind.  Taking  very  little  interest  in  works  of 
art,  he  was  occasionally  moved  by  the  beauty  of  natural 
objects;  but  his  principal  pre-occupation  remained  with 
the  moral  aspects  of  things.  From  this  point  of  view,  he 
found  much  to  reprehend  in  the  conduct  of  his  own 
countrymen.  "I  fear,"  he  wrote,  "that  our  countrymen 
who  live  abroad  are  not  in  the  best  possible  moral  state, 
however  much  they  may  do  in  science  or  literature."  And 
this  was  unfortunate,  because  "a  thorough  English  gen- 
tleman— Christian,  manly,  and  enlightened — is  more,  I 
believe,  than  Guizot  or  Sismondi  could  comprehend;  it 
is  a  finer  specimen  of  human  nature  than  any  other  coun- 
try, I  believe,  could  furnish."  Nevertheless,  our  travellers 
would  imitate  foreign  customs  without  discrimination, 
"as  in  the  absurd  habit  of  not  eating  fish  with  a  knife, 
borrowed  from  the  French,  who  do  it  because  they  have 


226  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

no  knives  fit  for  use."  Places,  no  less  than  people,  aroused 
similar  reflections.  By  Pompeii,  Dr.  Arnold  was  not  par- 
icicularly  impressed. 

There  is  only  [he  observed]  the  same  sort  of  interest  with  which 
one  would  see  the  ruins  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  but  indeed 
there  is  less.  One  is  not  authorised  to  ascribe  so  solemn  a  thzr- 
acter  to  the  destruction  of  Pompeii. 

The  lake  of  Como  moved  him  more  profoundly.  As  he 
gazed  upon  the  overwhelming  beauty  around  him,  he 
thought  of  "moral  evil,"  and  was  appalled  by  the  contrast. 
"May  the  sense  of  moral  evil,"  he  prayed  "be  as  strong 
in  me  as  my  delight  in  external  beauty,  for  in  a  deep 
sense  of  moral  evil,  more  perhaps  than  in  anything  else, 
abides  a  saving  knowledge  of  God!" 

His  prayer  was  answered:  Dr.  Arnold  was  never  in  any 
danger  of  losing  his  sense  of  moral  evil.  If  the  landscapes 
of  Italy  only  served  to  remind  him  of  it,  how  could  he 
forget  it  among  the  boys  at  Rugby  School?  The  daily 
sight  of  so  many  young  creatures  in  the  hands  of  the 
Evil  One  filled  him  with  agitated  grief. 

When  the  spring  and  activity  of  youth  [he  wrote]  is  altogether 
unsanctified  by  anything  pure  and  elevated  in  its  desires,  it 
becomes  a  spectacle  that  is  as  dizzying  and  almost  more  morally 
distressing  than  the  shouts  and  gambols  of  a  set  of  lunatics. 

One  thing  struck  him  as  particularly  strange:  "It  is  very 
startling,"  he  said,  "to  see  so  much  of  sin  combined  with 
so  little  of  sorrow."  The  naughtiest  boys  positively  seemed 
to  enjoy  themselves  most.  There  were  moments  when  he 
almost  lost  faith  in  his  whole  system  of  education,  when 
he  began  to  doubt  whether  some  far  more  radical  reforms 
than  any  he  had  attempted  might  not  be  necessary,  be- 


DR.     ARNOLD  227 

fore  the  multitude  of  children  under  his. charge — shout- 
ing and  gamboling,  and  yet  plunged  all  the  while  deep 
in  moral  evil — could  ever  be  transformed  into  a  set  of 
Christian  gentlemen.  But  then  he  remembered  his  gen- 
eral principles,  the  conduct  of  Jehovah  with  the  Chosen 
People,  and  the  childhood  of  the  human  race.  No,  it  was 
for  him  to  make  himself,  as  one  of  his  pupils  afterwards 
described  him,  in  the  words  of  Bacon,  "kin  to  God  in 
spirit";  he  would  rule  the  school  majestically  from  on 
high.  He  would  deliver  a  series  of  sermons  analysing  "the 
six  vices"  by  which  "great  schools  were  corrupted,  and 
changed  from  the  likeness  of  God's  temple  to  that  of  a 
den  of  thieves."  He  would  exhort,  he  would  denounce,  he 
would  sweep  through  the  corridors,  he  would  turn  the 
pages  of  Facciolati's  Lexicon  more  imposingly  than  ever; 
and  the  rest  he  would  leave  to  the  Praepostors  in  the  Sixth 
Form. 

Upon  the  boys  in  the  Sixth  Form,  indeed,  a  strange 
burden  would  seem  to  have  fallen.  Dr.  Arnold  himself 
was  very  well  aware  of  this.  "I  cannot  deny,"  he  told 
them  in  a  sermon,  "that  you  have  an  anxious  duty — a 
duty  which  some  might  suppose  was  too  heavy  for  your 
years";  and  every  term  he  pointed  out  to  them,  in  a  short 
address,  the  responsibilities  of  their  position,  and  im- 
pressed upon  them  "the  enormous  influence"  they  pos- 
sessed "for  good  or  for  evil."  Nevertheless  most  youths 
of  seventeen,  in  spite  of  the  warnings  of  their  elders,  have 
a  singular  trick  of  carrying  moral  burdens  lightly.  The 
Doctor  might  preach  and  look  grave;  but  young  Brooke 
was  ready  enough  to  preside  at  a  fight  behind  the  Chapel, 
though  he  was  in  the  Sixth,  and  knew  that  fighting  was 
against  the  rules.  At  their  best,  it  may  be  supposed  that 
the  Praepostors  administered  a  kind  of  barbaric  justice; 


228  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

but  they  were  not  always  at  their  best,  and  the  pages  of 
Tom  Brown's  Schooldays  show  us  what  was  no  doubt 
the  normal  condition  of  affairs  under  Dr.  Arnold,  when 
the  boys  in  the  Sixth  Form  were  weak  or  brutal,  and  the 
blackguard  Flashman,  in  the  intervals  of  swigging  brandy- 
punch  with  his  boon  companions,  amused  himself  by 
roasting  fags  before  the  fire. 

But  there  was  an  exceptional  kind  of  boy,  upon  whom 
the  high-pitched  exhortations  of  Dr.  Arnold  produced 
a  very  different  effect.  A  minority  of  susceptible  and 
serious  youths  fell  completely  under  his  sway,  respondecf 
like  wax  to  the  pressure  of  his  influence,  and  moulded 
their  whole  lives  with  passionate  reverence  upon  the  teach- 
ing of  their  adored  master.  Conspicuous  among  these  was 
Arthur  Clough.  Having  been  sent  to  Rugby  at  the  age 
of  ten,  he  quickly  entered  into  every  phase  of  school  life, 
though,  we  are  told,  "a  weakness  in  his  ankles  prevented 
him  from  taking  a  prominent  part  in  the  games  of  the 
place."  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  was  in  the  Sixth  Form, 
and  not  merely  a  Praepostor,  but  head  of  the  School  House. 
Never  did  Dr.  Arnold  have  an  apter  pupil.  This  earnest  ■ 
adolescent,  with  the  weak  ankles  and  the  solemn  face, 
lived  entirely  with  the  highest  ends  in  view.  He  thought 
of  nothing  but  moral  good,  moral  evil,  moral  influence, 
and  moral  responsibility.  Some  of  his  early  letters  have 
been  preserved,  and  they  reveal  both  the  intensity  with 
which  he  felt  the  importance  of  his  own  position,  and  the 
strange  stress  of  spirit  under  which  he  laboured.  "I  have 
been  in  one  continued  state  of  excitement  for  at  least  the 
last  three  years,"  he  wrote  when  he  was  not  yet  seventeen, 
"and  now  comes  the  time  of  exhaustion."  But  he  did  not 
allow  himself  to  rest,  and  a  few  months  later  he  was  writ- 
ing to  a  schoolfellow  as  follows: — 


DR.     ARNOLD  229 

I  verily  believe  my  whole  being  is  soaked  through  with  the 
wishing  and  hoping  and  striving  to  do  the  school  good,  or  rather 
to  keep  it  np  and  hinder  it  from  falling  in  this,  I  do  think,  very 
critical  time,  so  that  my  cares  and  affections  and  conversa- 
tions, thoughts,  words,  and  deeds  look  to  that  involuntarily.  I 
am  afraid  you  will  be  inclined  to  think  this  "cant,"  and  I  am 
conscious  that  even  one's  truest  feelings,  if  very  frequently  put 
out  in  the  light,  do  make  a  bad  and  disagreeable  appearance; 
but  this,  however,  is  true,  and  even  if  I  am  carrying  it  too  far,  I 
do  not  think  it  has  made  me  really  forgetful  of  my  personal 
friends,  such  as,  in  particular,  Gell  and  Burbidge  and  Walrond, 
and  yourself,  my  dear  Simpkinson. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  surprising  that  a  young  man  brought 
up  in  such  an  atmosphere  should  have  fallen  a  prey,  at 
Oxford,  to  the  frenzies  of  religious  controversy;  that  he 
should  have  been  driven  almost  out  of  his  wits  by  the 
ratiocinations  of  W.  G.  Ward;  that  he  should  have  lost 
his  faith;  that  he  should  have  spent  the  rest  of  his  exist- 
ence lamenting  that  loss,  both  in  prose  and  verse;  and 
that  he  should  have  eventually  succumbed,  conscientiously 
doing  up  brown  paper  parcels  for  Florence  Nightingale. 
In  the  earlier  years  of  his  headmastership  Dr.  Arnold 
had  to  face  a  good  deal  of  opposition.  His  advanced  re- 
ligious views  were  disliked,  and  there  were  many  parents 
to  whom  his  system  of  school  government  did  not  com- 
mend itself.  But  in  time  this  hostility  melted  away.  Suc- 
ceeding generations  of  favourite  pupils  began  to  spread 
his  fame  through  the  Universities.  At  Oxford  especially 
men  were  profoundly  impressed  by  the  pious  aims  of  the 
boys  from  Rugby.  It  was  a  new  thing  to  see  undergradu- 
ates going  to  Chapel  more  often  than  they  were  obliged, 
and  visiting  the  good  poor.  Their  reverent  admiration  for 
Dr.  Arnold  was  no  less  remarkable.  "Whenever  two  of  his 


zyo  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

old  pupils  met  they  joined  in  his  praises;  and  the  sight 
of  his  picture  had  been  known  to  call  forth,  from  one 
who  had  not  even  reached  the  Sixth,  exclamations  of  rap- 
ture lasting  for  ten  minutes  and  filling  with  astonishment 
the  young  men  from  other  schools  who  happened  to  be 
present.  He  became  a  celebrity;  he  became  at  last  a  great 
man.  Rugby  prospered;  its  members  rose  higher  than  ever 
before;  and,  after  thirteen  years  as  headmaster,  Dr.  Arnold 
began  to  feel  that  his  work  there  was  accomplished,  and 
that  he  might  look  forward  either  to  other  labours  or, 
perhaps,  to  a  dignified  retirement.  But  it  was  not  to  be. 
His  father  had  died  suddenly  at  the  age  of  fifty-three 
from  angina  pectoris;  and  he  himself  was  haunted  by 
forebodings  of  an  early  death.  To  be  snatched  away  with- 
out a  warning,  to  come  in  a  moment  from  the  seductions 
of  this  World  to  the  presence  of  Eternity — the  most  ordi- 
nary actions,  the  most  casual  remarks,  served  to  keep  him 
in  remembrance  of  that  dreadful  possibility.  "When  one 
of  his  little  boys  clapped  his  hands  at  the  thought  of  the 
approaching  holidays,  the  Doctor  gently  checked  him, 
and  repeated  the  story  of  his  own  early  childhood;  how 
his  own  father  had  made  him  read  aloud  a  sermon  on  the 
text  "Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow";  and  how,  within 
the  week,  his  father  was  dead.  On  the  title-page  of  his 
MS.  volume  of  sermons  he  was  always  careful  to  write 
the  date  of  its  commencement,  leaving  a  blank  for  that 
of  its  completion.  One  of  his  children  asked  him  the  mean- 
ing of  this.  "It  is  one  of  the  most  solemn  things  I  do,"  he 
replied,  "to  write  the  beginning  of  that  sentence,  and 
t|iink  that  I  may  perhaps  not  live  to  finish  it." 
'  It  was  noticed  that  in  the  spring  of  1 842  such  thoughts 
seemed  to  be  even  more  frequently  than  usual  in  his  mind. 
He  was  only  in  his  forty-seventh  year,  but  he  dwelt  darkly 


DR.     ARNOLD  231 

on  the  fragility  of  human  existence.  Towards  the  end  of 
May,  he  began  to  keep  a  diary — a  private  memorandum 
of  his  intimate  communings  with  the  Almighty.  Here, 
evening  after  evening,  in  the  traditional  language  of  re- 
ligious devotion,  he  humbled  himself  before  God,  prayed 
for  strength  and  purity,  and  threw  himself  upon  the 
mercy  of  the  Most  High. 

Another  day  and  another  month  succeed  [he  wrote  on  May 
31st].  May  God  keep  my  mind  and  heart  fixed  on  Him,  and 
cleanse  me  from  all  sin.  I  would  wish  to  keep  a  watch  over  my 
tongue,  as  to  vehement  speaking  and  censuring  of  others.  ...  I 
would  desire  to  remember  my  latter  end  to  which  I  am  approach- 
ing. .  .  .  May  God  keep  me  in  the  hour  of  death,  through  Jesus 
Christ;  and  preserve  me  from  every  fear,  as  well  as  from  pre- 
sumption. 

On  June  2nd  he  wrote,  "Again  the  day  is  over  and  I  am 
going  to  rest.  O  Lord,  preserve  me  this  night,  and 
strengthen  me  to  bear  whatever  Thou  shalt  see  fit  to  lay 
on  me,  whether  pain,  sickness,  danger,  or  distress."  On 
Sunday,  June  5  th,  the  reading  of  the  newspaper  aroused 
"painful  and  solemn"  reflections. — "So  much  of  sin  and  so 
much  of  suffering  in  the  world,  as  are  there  displayed, 
and  no  one  seems  able  to  remedy  either.  And  then  the 
thought  of  my  own  private  life,  so  full  of  comforts,  is 
very  startling."  He  was  puzzled;  but  he  concluded  with 
a  prayer:  "May  I  be  kept  humble  and  zealous,  and  may 
God  give  me  grace  to  labour  in  my  generation  for  the 
good  of  my  brethren,  and  for  His  Glory!" 

The  end  of  the  term  was  approaching,  and  to  all  ap- 
pearance the  Doctor  was  in  excellent  spirits.  On  June  nth 
after  a  hard  day's  work,  he  spent  the  evening  with  a 
friend  in  the  discusssion  of  various  topics  upon  which 


232  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

iie  often  touched  in  his  conversation — the  comparison  of 
the  art  of  medicine  in  barbarous  and  civihsed  ages,  the 
philological  importance  of  provincial  vocabularies,  and 
the  threatening  prospect  of  the  moral  condition  of  the 
United  States.  Left  alone,  he  turned  to  his  Diary. 

The  day  after  to-morrow  [he  wrote]  is  my  birthday,  if  I  am 
permitted  to  live  to  see  it — my  forty-seventh  birthday  since 
my  birth.  How  large  a  portion  of  my  life  on  earth  is  already 
passed!  And  then — what  is  to  follow  this  life?  How  visibly  my 
outward  work  seems  contracting  and  softening  away  into  the 
gentler  employments  of  old  age.  In  one  sense,  how  nearly  can 
i  now  say,  "Vixi."  And  I  thank  God  that,  as  far  as  ambition  is 
concerned,  it  is,  I  trust,  fully  mortified;  I  have  no  desire  other 
than  to  step  back  from  my  present  place  in  the  world,  and  not 
to  rise  to  a  higher.  Still  there  are  works  which,  with  God's  per- 
mission, I  would  do  before  the  night  cometh. 

Dr.  Arnold  was  thinking  of  his  great  work  on  Church 
and  State. 

Early  next  morning  he  awoke  with  a  sharp  pain  in  his 
chest.  The  pain  increasing,  a  physician  was  sent  for;  and 
in  the  meantime  Mrs.  Arnold  read  aloud  to  her  husband 
the  Fifty-first  Psalm.  Upon  one  of  their  boys  coming  into 
the  room, 

My  son,  thank  God  for  me  [said  Dr.  Arnold;  and  as  the  boy 
did  not  at  once  catch  his  meaning,  he  added],  Thank  God, 
Tom,  for  giving  me  this  pain;  I  have  suffered  so  little  pain  in 
my  life  that  I  feel  it  is  very  good  for  me.  Now  God  has  given 
it  to  me,  and  I  do  so  thank  Him  for  it. 

Then  Mrs.  Arnold  read  from  the  Prayer-book  the  "Visita- 
tion of  the  Sick,"  her  husband  listening  with  deep  atten- 
tion, and  assenting  with  an  emphatic  "Yes"  at  the  end 
of  many  of  the  sentences.  When  the  physician  arrived,  he 


DR.     ARNOLD  233 

perceived  at  once  the  gravity  of  the  case:  it  was  an  attack 
of  angina  pectoris.  He  began  to  prepare  some  laudanum, 
while  Mrs.  Arnold  went  out  to  fetch  the  children.  All  at 
once,  as  the  medical  man  was  bending  over  his  glasses, 
there  was  a  rattle  from  the  bed;  a  convulsive  struggle 
followed;  and,  when  the  unhappy  woman  with  the  chil- 
dren, and  all  the  servants,  rushed  into  the  room,  Dr. 
Arnold  had  passed  from  his  perplexities  for  ever. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  what  he  had  achieved 
justified  the  prediction  of  the  Provost  of  Oriel  that  he 
Would  "change  the  face  of  education  all  through  the 
public  schools  of  England."  It  is  true  that,  so  far  as  the 
actual  machinery  of  education  was  concerned,  Dr.  Arnold 
not  only  failed  to  effect  a  change,  but  deliberately  ad- 
hered to  the  old  system.  The  monastic  and  literary  con- 
ceptions of  education,  which  had  their  roots  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  had  been  accepted  and  strengthened  at  the  re- 
vival of  Learning,  he  adopted  almost  without  hesitation. 
Under  him,  the  public  school  remained,  in  essentials,  a 
conventual  establishment,  devoted  to  the  teaching  of 
Greek  and  Latin  grammar.  Had  he  set  on  foot  reforms  in 
these  directions,  it  seems  probable  that  he  might  have 
succeeded  in  carrying  the  parents  of  England  with  him. 
The  moment  was  ripe;  there  was  a  general  desire  for  edu- 
cational changes;  and  Dr.  Arnold's  great  reputation 
could  hardly  have  been  resisted.  As  it  was,  he  threw  the 
whole  weight  of  his  influence  into  the  opposite  scale,  and 
the  ancient  system  became  more  firmly  established  than 
ever. 

The  changes  which  he  did  effect  were  of  a  very  differ- 
ent nature.  By  introducing  morals  and  religion  into  his 
scheme  of  education,  he  altered  the  whole  atmosphere  of 
Public  School  life.  Henceforward  the  old  rough-and- 


234  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

tumble,  which  was  typified  by  the  regime  of  Keate  at 
Eton,  became  impossible.  After  Dr.  Arnold,  no  public 
school  could  venture  to  ignore  the  virtues  of  respecta- 
bility. Again,  by  his  introduction  of  the  prefectorial 
lystem,  Dr.  Arnold  produced  far-reaching  effects — effects 
'which  he  himself,  perhaps,  would  have  found  perplexing. 
In  his  day,  when  the  school  hours  were  over,  the  boys 
were  free  to  enjoy  themselves  as  they  liked;  to  bathe,  to 
fish,  to  ramble  for  long  afternoons  in  the  country,  collect- 
ing eggs  or  gathering  flowers.  "The  taste  of  the  boys  at 
this  period,"  writes  an  old  Rugb^ean  who  had  been  under 
Arnold,  "leaned  strongly  towards  flowers";  the  words 
have  an  odd  look  to-day.  The  modern  reader  of  Tom 
Brown's  Schooldays  searches  in  vain  for  any  reference  to 
compulsory  games,  house  colors,  or  cricket  averages.  In 
those  days,  when  boys  played  games  they  played  them  for 
pleasure;  but  in  those  days  the  prefectorial  system — the 
system  which  hands  over  the  life  of  a  school  to  an  oligarchy 
of  a  dozen  youths  of  seventeen — was  still  in  its  infancy, 
and  had  not  yet  borne  its  fruit.  Teachers  and  prophets 
have  strange  after-histories;  and  that  of  Dr.  Arnold  has 
been  no  exception.  The  earnest  enthusiast  v/ho  strove  to 
make  his  pupils  Christian  gentlemen  and  who  governed 
his  school  according  to  the  principles  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment has  proved  to  be  the  founder  of  the  worship  of 
athletics  and  the  worship  of  good  form.  Upon  those  two 
poles  our  public  schools  have  turned  for  so  long  that  we 
have  almost  come  to  believe  that  such  is  their  essential 
nature,  and  that  an  English  public  schoolboy  who  wears 
the  wrong  clothes  and  takes  no  interest  in  football  is  a 
contradiction  in  terms.  Yet  it  was  not  so  before  Dr. 
Arnold;  will  it  always  be  so  after  him?  We  shall  see. 


DR.     ARNOLD 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


^35 


Dean  Stanley.  Life  and  Correspondence  of  Dr.  Arnold. 

Thomas  Hughes.   Tonz  Brotvn's  Schooldays. 

Sir  H.  Maxwell-Lyte.  History  of  Lion  College. 

Wilfrid  Ward.  W.  G.  Ward  and  the  Oxford  Movemeia. 

A.  H.  Clough.  Letters. 

An  Old  RugbiEan.  Recollections  of  Rugby. 

Thomas  Arnold.  Passages  in  a  Wandering  Life. 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON 

During  the  year  1883  a  solitary  English  gentleman  was 
to  be  seen,  wandering,  with  a  thick  book  under  his  arm, 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Jerusalem.  His  unassuming 
figure,  short  and  slight,  with  its  half-gliding,  half-trip- 
ping motion,  gave  him  a  boyish  aspect,  which  contrasted, 
oddly,  but  not  unpleasantly,  with  the  touch  of  grey  on  his 
hair  and  whiskers.  There  was  the  same  contrast — enig- 
matic and  attractive — between  the  sun-burnt  brick-red 
complexion — the  hue  of  the  seasoned  traveller — and  the 
large  blue  eyes,  with  their  look  of  almost  childish  sincerity. 
To  the  friendly  inquirer,  he  would  explain,  in  a  low,  softj 
and  very  distinct  voice,  that  he  was  engaged  in  elucidating 
four  questions — the  site  of  the  crucifixion,  the  line  of 
division  between  the  tribes  of  Benjamin  and  Judah,  the 
identification  of  Gibeon,  and  the  position  of  the  Garden 
of  Eden.  He  was  also,  he  would  add,  most  anxious  to  dis- 
cover the  spot  where  the  Ark  first  touched  ground,  after 
the  subsidence  of  the  Flood:  he  believed.  Indeed,  that  he 
had  solved  that  problem,  as  a  reference  to  some  passages 
in  the  book  which  he  was  carrying  would  show. 

This  singular  person  was  General  Gordon,  and  his 
book  was  the  Holy  Bible. 

In  such  complete  retirement  from  the  world  and  the 
ways  of  men,  it  might  have  seemed  that  a  life  of  inordinate 
activity  had  found  at  last  a  longed-for,  a  final  peaceful- 
ness.  For  month  after  month,  for  an  entire  year,  the  Gen- 
eral lingered  by  the  banks  of  the  Jordan.  But  then  the 

239 


-40  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

enchantment  was  suddenly  broken.  Once  more  adventure 
claimed  him;  he  plunged  into  the  whirl  of  high  affairs; 
his  fate  was  mingled  with  the  frenzies  of  Empire  and  the 
doom  of  peoples.  And  it  was  not  in  peace  and  rest,  but  in 
ruin  and  horror,  that  he  reached  his  end. 

The  circumstances  of  that  tragic  history,  so  famous, 
so  bitterly  debated,  so  often  and  so  controversially  de- 
scribed, remain  full  of  suggestion  for  the  curious  examiner 
of  the  past.  There  emerges  from  those  obscure,  unhappy 
records  an  interest,  not  merely  political  and  historical,  but 
human  and  dramatic.  One  catches  a  vision  of  strange 
characters,  moved  by  mysterious  impulses,  interacting  in 
queer  complication,  and  hurrying  at  last — so  it  almost 
seems — like  creatures  in  a  puppet  show  to  a  predestined 
catastrophe.  The  characters,  too,  have  a  charm  of  their 
own:  they  are  curiously  English.  What  other  nation  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  could  have  produced  Mr.  Gladstone 
and  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  and  Lord  Hartington  and  General 
Gordon?  Alike  in  their  emphasis  and  their  lack  of  em- 
phasis, in  their  eccentricity  «nd  their  conventionality,  in 
their  matter-of-factness  and  their  romance,  these  four 
figures  seem  to  embody  the  mingling  contradictions  of 
the  English  spirit.  As  for  the  mise-en-scene,  it  is  perfectly 
appropriate.-  But  first  let  us  glance  at  the  earlier  adven- 
tures of  the  hero  of  the  piece. 

Charles  George  Gordon  was  born  in  1833.  His  father, 
of  Highland  and  military  descent,  was  himself  a  Lieu- 
tenant-General;  his  mother  came  of  a  family  of  mer- 
chants, distinguished  for  their  sea-voyages  into  remote 
regions  of  the  Globe.  As  a  boy,  Charlie  was  remarkable  for 
his  high  spirits,  pluck,  and  love  of  mischief.  Destined  for 
the  Artillery,  he  was  sent  to  the  Academy  at  Woolwich, 
where  some  other  characteristics  made  their  appearance. 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    24I 

On  one  occasion,  when  the  cadets  had  been  forbidden  to 
leave  the  dining-room  and  the  senior  corporal  stood  with 
outstretched  arms  in  the  doorway  to  prevent  their  exit, 
Charlie  Gordon  put  his  head  down,  and,  butting  the 
oflEcer  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  projected  him  down  a 
flight  of  stairs  and  through  a  glass  door  at  the  bottom. 
For  this  act  of  insubordination  he  was  nearly  dismissed; 
while  the  Captain  of  his  Company  predicted  that  he 
Would  never  make  an  officer.  A  little  later,  when  he  was 
eighteen,  it  came  to  the  knowledge  of  the  authorities  that 
bullying  was  rife  at  the  Academy.  The  newcomers  were 
questioned  and  one  of  them  said  that  Charlie  Gordon  had 
hit  him  over  the  head  with  a  clothes-brush.  He  had  worked 
well,  and  his  record  was  on  the  whole  a  good  one;  but  the 
authorities  took  a  serious  view  of  the  case,  and  held  back 
his  commission  for  six  months.  It  was  owing  to  this  delay 
that  he  went  into  the  Royal  Engineers,  instead  of  the  Royal 
Artillery. 

He  was  sent  to  Pembroke,  to  work  at  the  erection  of 
fortifications;  and  at  Pembroke  those  religious  convic- 
tions, which  never  afterwards  left  him,  first  gained  a  hold 
upon  his  mind.  Under  the  influence  of  his  sister  Augusta 
and  of  a  "very  religious  captain  of  the  name  of  Drew," 
he  began  to  reflect  upon  his  sins,  look  up  texts,  and  hope 
for  salvation.  Though  he  had  never  been  confirmed — ^he 
never  was  confirmed — he  took  the  sacrament  every  Sun- 
day; and  he  eagerly  perused  the  'Priceless  Diamond,  Scott's 
Commentaries,  and  The  Kemains  of  the  Rev.  R.  Mc- 
Cheyne. 

No  novels  or  worldly  books  [he  wrote  to  his  sister]  come  up  to 
the  Commentaries  of  Scott.  ...  I  remember  well  when  you  used 
to  get  them  in  numbers,  and  I  used  to  laugh  at  them;  but,  thank 
God,  it  is  different  with  me  now.  I  feel  much  happier  and  more 


242  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

contented  than  I  used  to  do.  I  did  not  like  Pembroke,  but  now 
I  would  not  wish  for  any  prettier  place.  I  have  got  a  horse  and 
gig,  and  Drew  and  myself  drive  all  about  the  country,  I  hope 
my  dear  father  and  mother  think  of  eternal  things.  .  .  .  Dearest 
Augusta,  pray  for  me,  I  beg  of  you. 

He  was  twenty-one;  the  Crimean  War  broke  out;  and 
before  the  year  was  over  he  had  managed  to  get  himself 
transferred  to  Balaclava.  During  the  siege  of  Sebastopol 
he  behaved  with  conspicuous  gallantry.  Upon  the  declara- 
tion of  peace,  he  was  sent  to  Bessarabia  to  assist  in  deter- 
mining the  frontier  between  Russia  and  Turkey,  in 
accordance  with  the  treaty  of  Paris;  and  upon  this  duty 
he  was  occupied  for  nearly  two  years.  Not  long  after  his 
return  home,  in  18^0,  war  was  declared  upon  China. 
Captain  Gordon  was  dispatched  to  the  scene  of  operations, 
but  the  fighting  was  over  before  he  arrived.  Nevertheless, 
he  was  to  remain  for  the  next  four  years  in  China,  where 
he  was  to  lay  the  foundations  of  an  extraordinary  renown. 

Though  he  was  too  late  to  take  part  in  the  capture  of 
the  Taku  Forts,  he  was  in  time  to  witness  the  destruction 
of  the  Summer  Palace  at  Pekin — the  act  by  which  Lord 
Elgin,  in  the  name  of  European  civilisation,  took  venge- 
ance upon  the  barbarism  of  the  East. 

The  war  was  over;  but  the  British  army  remained  in  the 
country,  until  the  payment  of  an  indemnity  by  the  Chi- 
nese Government  was  completed.  A  camp  was  formed  at 
Tientsin,  and  Gordon  was  occupied  in  setting  up  huts  for 
the  troops.  While  he  was  thus  engaged,  he  had  a  slight 
attack  of  small-pox.  "I  am  glad  to  say,"  he  told  his  sister, 
"that  this  disease  has  brought  me  back  to  my  Saviour, 
and  I  trust  in  future  to  be  a  better  Christian  than  I  have 
been  hitherto." 

Curiously  enough   a  similar  circumstance  had,  more 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    243 

than  twenty  years  earlier,  brought  about  a  singular  suc- 
cession of  events  which  were  now  upon  the  point  of  open- 
ing the  way  to  Gordon's  first  great  adventure.  In  1837, 
a  village  schoolmaster  near  Canton  had  been  attacked  by 
illness;  and,  as  in  the  case  of  Gordon,  illness  had  been  fol- 
lowed by  a  religious  revulsion.  Hong-siu-tsuen — for  such 
was  his  name — saw  visions,  went  into  ecstasies,  and  en- 
tered into  relations  with  the  Deity.  Shortly  afterwards  he 
fell  in  with  a  Methodist  missionary  from  America,  who 
instructed  him  in  the  Christian  religion.  The  new  doc- 
trine, working  upon  the  mystical  ferment  already  in 
Hong's  mind,  produced  a  remarkable  result.  He  was,  he 
declared,  the  prophet  of  God;  he  was  more — he  was  the 
Son  of  God;  he  was  Tien  Wang,  the  Celestial  king;  he  was 
the  younger  brother  of  Jesus.  The  times  were  propitious, 
and  proselytes  soon  gathered  around  him.  Having  con- 
ceived a  grudge  against  the  Government,  owing  to  his 
failure  in  an  examination.  Hong  gave  a  political  turn  to 
his  teaching,  which  soon  developed  into  a  propaganda  of 
rebellion  against  the  rule  of  the  Manchus  and  the  Manda- 
rins. The  authorities  took  fright,  attempted  to  suppress 
Hong  by  force,  and  failed.  The  movement  spread.  By  1850 
the  rebels  were  overrunning  the  populous  and  flourishing 
delta  of  the  Yang-tse-Kiang,  and  had  become  a  formidable 
force.  In  1853  they  captured  Nankin,  which  was  hence- 
forth their  capital.  The  Tien  Wang  established  himself  in 
a  splendid  palace,  and  proclaimed  his  new  evangel.  His 
theogony  included  the  wife  of  God,  or  the  celestial  Mother, 
the  wife  of  Jesus,  or  the  celestial  daughter-in-law,  and 
a  sister  of  Jesus,  whom  he  married  to  one  of  his  lieutenants, 
who  thus  became  the  celestial  son-in-law;  the  Holy  Ghost, 
however,  was  eliminated.  His  mission  was  to  root  out 
Demons  and  Manchus  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  to 


244  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

establish  Taiping,  the  reign  of  eternal  peace.  In  the  mean- 
time, retiring  into  the  depths  of  his  palace,  he  left  the 
further  conduct  of  earthly  operations  to  his  lieutenants, 
upon  whom  he  bestowed  the  title  of  "Wangs"  (kings), 
while  he  himself,  surrounded  by  thirty  wives  and  one 
hundred  concubines,  devoted  his  energies  to  the  spiritual 
side  of  his  mission.  The  Taiping  Rebellion,  as  it  came  to  be 
called,  had  now  reached  its  furthest  extent.  The  rebels 
were  even  able  to  occupy,  for  more  than  a  year,  the  semi- 
European  city  of  Shanghai.  But  then  the  tide  turned.  The 
latent  forces  of  the  Empire  gradually  asserted  themselves. 
The  rebels  lost  ground,  their  armies  were  defeated,  and 
in  1859  Nankin  itself  was  besieged  and  the  Celestial  King 
trembled  in  his  palace.  The  end  seemed  to  be  at  hand,  when 
there  was  a  sudden  twist  of  Fortune's  wheel.  The  war  of 
18^0,  the  invasion  of  China  by  European  armies,  their 
march  into  the  interior,  and  their  occupation  of  Pekin, 
not  only  saved  the  rebels  from  destruction  but  allowed 
•:hem  to  recover  the  greater  part  of  what  they  had  lost. 
Once  more  they  seized  upon  the  provinces  of  the  delta, 
once  more  they  menaced  Shanghai.  It  was  clear  that  the 
imperial  army  was  incompetent,  and  the  Shanghai  mer- 
chants determined  to  provide  for  their  own  safety  as  best 
they  could.  They  accordingly  got  together  a  body  of 
troops,  partly  Chinese  and  partly  European  and  under 
European  officers,  to  which  they  entrusted  the  defence  of 
the  town.  This  small  force,  which,  after  a  few  preliminary 
successes,  received  from  the  Chinese  Government  the  title 
of  the  "Ever  Victorious  Army,"  was  able  to  hold  the 
rebels  at  bay,  but  it  could  do  no  more.  For  two  years 
Shanghai  was  in  constant  danger.  The  Taipings,  steadily 
growing  in  power,  were  spreading  destruction  far  and 
wide.  Tl-ie  Ever  Victorious  Army  was  the  only  force 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    24  j 

capable  of  opposing  them,  and  the  Ever  Victorious  Army- 
was  defeated  more  often  than  not.  Its  first  European  leader 
had  been  killed;  his  successor  quarrelled  with  the  Chin^ss 
Governor,  Li  Hung  Chang,  and  was  dismissed.  At  life  it 
was  determined  to  ask  the  General  at  the  head  of  the 
British  army  of  occupation  for  the  loan  of  an  officer  to 
command  the  force.  The  English,  who  had  been  at  first 
inclined  to  favour  the  Taipings,  on  religious  grounds, 
were  now  convinced,  on  practical  grounds,  of  the  neces- 
sity of  suppressing  them.  It  was  in  these  circumstances 
that,  early  in  18^3,  the  command  of  the  Ever  Victorious 
Army  was  offered  to  Gordon.  He  accepted  it,  received  the 
title  of  General  from  the  Chinese  authorities,  and  entered 
forthwith  upon  his  new  task.  He  was  just  thirty. 

In  eighteen  months,  he  told  Li  Hung  Chang,  the  busi- 
ness would  be  finished;  and  he  was  as  good  as  his  word. 
The  difficulties  before  him  were  very  great.  A  vast  tract 
of  country  was  in  the  possession  of  the  rebels — an  area,  at 
the  lowest  estimate,  of  14,000  square  miles  with  a  popula- 
tion of  twenty  millions.  For  centuries  this  low-lying  plain 
of  the  Yang-tse  delta,  rich  in  silk  and  tea,  fertilised  by 
elaborate  irrigation,  and  covered  with  great  walled  cities, 
"had  been  one  of  the  most  flourishing  districts  in  China. 
Though  it  was  now  being  rapidly  ruined  by  the  depreda- 
tions of  the  Taipings,  its  strategic  strength  was  obviously 
enormous.  Gordon,  however,  with  the  eye  of  a  born  gen- 
eral, perceived  that  he  could  convert  the  very  feature  of 
the  country  which,  on  the  face  of  it,  most  favoured  an 
army  on  the  defence — its  complicated  geographical  sys- 
tem of  interlacing  roads  and  waterwayi^  canals,  lakes  and 
rivers — to  a  means  of  offense  warfare.  The  force  at  his 
disposal  was  small,  but  it  was  mobile.  He  had  a  passion 
for  map-making,  and  had  already,  in  his  leisure  hoursj 


24^  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

made  a  careful  survey  of  the  country  round  Shanghai; 
he  was  thus  able  to  execute  a  series  of  manoeuvres  which 
proved  fatal  to  the  enemy.  By  swift  marches  and  counter- 
marches, by  sudden  attacks  and  surprises,  above  all  by 
the  dispatch  of  armed  steamboats  up  the  circuitous  water- 
ways into  positions  from  which  they  could  fall  upon  the 
enemy  in  reverse,  he  was  able  gradually  to  force  back  the 
rebels,  to  cut  them  off  piece-meal  in  the  field,  and  to  seize 
upon  their  cities.  But,  brilliant  as  these  operations  were, 
Gordon's  military  genius  showed  itself  no  less  unmis- 
takably in  other  directions.  The  Ever  Victorious  Army, 
recruited  from  the  riff-raff  of  Shanghai,  was  an  ill-dis- 
ciplined, ill-organised  body  of  about  three  thousand 
men,  constantly  on  the  verge  of  mutiny,  svipporting 
itself  on  plunder,  and,  at  the  slightest  provocation,  melt- 
ing into  thin  air.  Gordon,  by  sheer  force  of  character, 
established  over  this  incoherent  mass  of  ruffians  an 
extraordinary  ascendancy.  He  drilled  them  with  rigid 
severity;  he  put  them  into  a  uniform,  aj^med  them  syste- 
matically, substituted  pay  for  loot,  and  was  even  able,  at 
last,  to  introduce  regulations  of  a  sanitary  kind.  There 
were  som.e  terrible  scenes.,  in  which  the  General,  alone, 
faced  the  whole  furious  af'my,  and  quelled  it:  scenes  of 
rage,  desperation,  towering  courage,  and  summary  execu- 
tion. Eventually  he  attainec'.  to  an  almosi,  magical  prestige. 
Walking  at  the  head  of  his  t  *oops,  with  nothing  but  a  light 
cane  in  his  hand,  he  seemecf  to  pass  through  every  danger 
with  the  scatheless  equanimity  of  a  demi-God.  The  Tai- 
pings  themselves  were  awed  into  a  strange  reverence.  More 
than  once  their  leaders,  in  a  frenzy  of  fear  and  admiration, 
ordered  the  sharp-shooters  not  to  take  aim  at  the  advanc- 
ing figure  of  the  faintly  smiling  Englishman. 

It  is  significant  that  Gordon  found  it  easier  to  win 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    247 

battles  and  to  crush  mutineers  than  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  the  Chinese  authorities.  He  had  to  act  in  co-opera- 
tion with  a  large  native  force;  and  it  was  only  natural  that 
the  General  at  the  head  of  it  should  grow  more  and  more 
jealous  and  angry  as  the  Englishman's  successes  revealed 
more  and  more  clearly  his  own  incompetence.  At  first, 
indeed,  Gordon  could  rely  upon  the  support  of  the  Gover- 
nor. Li  Hung  Chang's  experience  of  Europeans  had  been 
hitherto  limited  to  low-class  adventurers,  and  Gordon 
came  as  a  revelation; 

It  is  a  direct  blessing  from  Heaven  [he  noted  in  his  diary]  the 
coming  of  this  British  Gordon.  .  .  .  He  is  superior  in  manner 
and  bearing  to  any  of  the  foreigners  whom  I  have  come  into 
contact  with,  and  does  not  show  outwardly  that  conceit  which 
makes  most  of  them  repugnant  in  my  sight. 

A  few  months  later,  after  he  had  accompanied  Gordon 
on  a  victorious  expedition,  the  Mandarin's  enthusiasm 
burst  forth. 

What  a  sight  for  tired  eyes  [he  wrote],  what  an  elixir  for  a 
heavy  heart — to  see  this  splendid  Englishman  fight!  ...  If  there 
is  anything  that  I  admire  nearly  as  much  as  the  superb  scholar- 
ship of  Tseng  Kuo-fan  it  is  the  military  qualities  of  this  fine 
officer.  He  is  a  glorious  fellow! 

In  his  emotion,  Li  Hung  Chang  addressed  Gordon  as  his 
brother,  declaring  that  he  "considered  him  worthy  to  fill 
the  place  of  the  brother  who  is  departed.  Could  I  have 
said  more  in  all  the  words  of  the  world?"  Then  something 
happened  which  impressed  and  mystified  the  sensitive 
Chinaman. 

The  Englishman's  face  was  first  filled  with  a  deep  pleasure,  and 
then  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something  depressing  and 


248  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

sad;  for  the  smile  went  from  his  mouth  and  there  were  tears  in 
his  eyes  when  he  thanked  me  for  what  I  had  said.  Can  it  be  that 
he  has,  or  has  had,  some  great  trouble  in  his  Kfe,  and  that  he 
fights  recklessly  to  forget  it,  or  that  Death  has  no  terrors 
for  him? 

But,  as  time  went  on,  LI  Hung  Chang's  attitude  began 
to  change.  "General  Gordon,"  he  notes  in  July,  "must 
control  his  tongue,  even  if  he  lets  his  mind  run  loose." 
The  Englishman  had  accused  him  of  intriguing  with  the 
Chinese  General,  and  of  withholding  money  due  to  the 
Ever  Victorious  Army.  "Why  does  he  not  accord  me 
the  honours  that  are  due  to  me,  as  head  of  the  military 
and  civil  authority  in  these  parts?"  By  September  the 
Governor's  earlier  transports  have  been  replaced  by  a 
more  judicial  frame  of  mind. 

With  his  many  faults,  his  pride,  his  temper,  and  his  never-ending 
demand  for  money,  Gordon  is  a  noble  man,  and  in  spite  of  all 
I  have  said  to  him  or  about  him,  I  will  ever  think  most  highly 
of  him.  .  .  .  He  is  an  honest  man,  but  difficult  to  get  on  with. 

Disagreements  of  this  kind  might  perhaps  have  been 
tided  over  till  the  end  of  the  campaign;  but  an  unfortu- 
nate Incident  suddenly  led  to  a  more  serious  quarrel. 
Gordon's  advance  had  been  fiercely  contested,  but  It  had 
been  constant;  he  had  captured  several  Important  towns; 
and  In  October  he  laid  siege  to  the  city  of  Soochow,  once 
one  of  the  most  famous  and  splendid  in  China.  In  Decem- 
ber, Its  fall  being  obviously  Imminent,  the  Talping  leaders 
agreed  to  surrender  It,  on  condition  that  their  lives  were 
spared.  Gordon  was  a  party  to  the  agreement,  and  laid 
special  stress  upon  his  presence  with  the  Imperial  forces 
as  a  pledge  of  Its  fulfilment.  No  sooner,  however,  was  the 
city  surrendered  than  the  rebel  "Wangs"  were  assassinated. 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    249 

In  his  fury,  it  is  said  that  Gordon  searched  everywhere 
for  Li  Hung  Chang  with  a  loaded  pistol  in  his  hand.  He 
was  convinced  of  the  complicity  of  the  Governor,  who,  on 
his  side,  denied  that  he  was  responsible  for  what  had 
happened. 

I  asked  him  why  I  should  plot,  and  go  round  a  mountain,  when 
a  mere  order,  written  with  five  strokes  of  the  quill,  would  have 
accomplished  the  same  thing.  He  did  not  answer,  but  he  insulted 
me,  and  said  he  would  report  my  treachery,  as  he  called  it,  to 
Shanghai  and  England.  Let  him  do  so;  he  cannot  bring  the  crazy 
"Wangs  back. 

The  agitated  Mandarin  hoped  to  placate  Gordon  by  a 
large  gratuity  and  an  imperial  medal;  but  the  plan  was 
not  successful. 

General  Gordon  [he  writes]  called  upon  me  in  his  angriest  mood. 
He  repeated  his  former  speeches  about  the  Wangs.  I  did  not 
attempt  to  argue  with  him.  .  . .  He  refused  the  10,000  taels, 
which  I  had  ready  for  him,  and,  with  an  oath,  said  that  he  did 
not  want  the  Throne's  medal.  This  is  showing  the  greatest  dis- 
respect. 

Gordon  resigned  his  command;  and  it  was  only  with  the 
utmost  reluctance  that  he  agreed  at  last  to  resume  it.  An 
arduous  and  terrible  series  of  operations  followed;  but 
they  were  successful,  and  by  June,  1864,  the  Ever  Vic- 
torious Army,  having  accomplished  its  task,  was  dis- 
banded. The  imperial  forces  now  closed  round  Nankin: 
the  last  hopes  of  the  Tien  Wang  had  vanished.  In  the 
recesses  of  his  seraglio,  the  Celestial  King,  judging  that 
the  time  had  come  for  the  conclusion  of  his  mission, 
swallowed  gold  leaf  until  he  ascended  to  Heaven.  In 
July,  Nankin  was  taken,  the  remaining  chiefs  were  exe- 


250  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

cuted,  and  the  rebellion  was  at  an  end.  The  Chinese 
Government  gave  Gordon  the  highest  rank  in  its  military 
hierarchy,  and  invested  him  with  the  yellow  jacket  and 
the  peacock's  feather.  He  rejected  an  enormous  offer  of 
money;  but  he  could  not  refuse  a  great  gold  medal, 
specially  struck  in  his  honour  by  order  of  the  Emperor. 
At  the  end  of  the  year  he  returned  to  England,  where  the 
conqueror  of  the  Taipings  was  made  a  Companion  of 
the  Bath. 

That  the  English  authorities  should  have  seen  fit  to 
recognise  Gordon's  services  by  the  reward  usually  reserved 
for  industrious  clerks  was  typical  of  their  attitude  towards 
him  until  the  very  end  of  his  career.  Perhaps  if  he  had  been 
ready  to  make  the  most  of  the  wave  of  popularity  which 
greeted  him  on  his  return — if  he  had  advertised  his  fame 
and,  amid  high  circles,  played  the  part  of  Chinese  Gordon 
in  a  becoming  manner — the  results  would  have  been 
different.  But  he  was  by  nature  farouche;  his  soul  revolted 
against  dinner-parties  and  stiff  shirts;  and  the  presence 
of  ladies — especially  of  fashionable  ladies — filled  him 
with  uneasiness.  He  had,  besides,  a  deeper  dread  of  the 
world's  contaminations.  And  so,  when  he  was  appointed 
to  Gravesend  to  supervise  the  erection  of  a  system  of  forts 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Thames,  he  remained  there  quietly  for 
six  years,  and  at  last  was  almost  forgotten.  The  forts, 
which  were  extremely  expensive  and  quite  useless,  occu- 
pied his  working  hours;  his  leisure  he  devoted  to  acts  of 
charity  and  to  religious  contemplation.  The  neighbour- 
hood was  a  poverty-stricken  one,  and  the  kind  Colonel, 
with  his  tripping  step  and  simple  manner,  was  soon  a 
familiar  figure  in  it,  chatting  with  the  seamen,  taking 
provisions  to  starving  families,  or  visiting  some  bedridden 
old  woman  to  light  her  fire.  He  was  particularly  fond  of 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    2$I 

boys.  Ragged  street  arabs  and  rough  sailor-lads  crowded 
about  him.  They  were  made  free  of  his  house  and  garden; 
they  visited  him  in  the  evenings  for  lessons  and  advice; 
he  helped  them,  found  thein  employment,  corresponded 
with  them  when  they  went  out  into  the  world.  They  were, 
he  said,  his  Wangs.  It  was  only  by  a  singular  austerity  of 
living  that  he  was  able  to  afford  such  a  variety  of  charitable 
expenses.  The  easy  luxuries  of  his  class  and  station  were 
unknown  to  him:  his  clothes  verged  upon  the  shabby; 
and  his  frugal  meals  were  eaten  at  a  table  with  a  drawer, 
into  which  the  loaf  and  plate  were  quickly  swept  at  the 
approach  of  his  poor  visitors.  Special  occasions  demanded 
special  sacrifices.  When,  during  the  Lancashire  famine,  a 
public  subscription  was  opened,  finding  that  he  had  no 
ready  money,  he  remembered  his  Chinese  medal,  and,  after 
effacing  the  inscription,  dispatched  it  as  an  anonymous 
gift. 

Except  for  his  boys  and  his  paupers,  he  lived  alone.  In 
his  solitude,  he  ruminated  upon  the  mysteries  of  the  uni- 
verse; and  those  religious  tendencies,  which  had  already 
shown  themselves,  now  became  a  fixed  and  dominating 
factor  in  his  life.  His  reading  was  confined  almost  entirely 
to  the  Bible;  but  the  Bible  he  read  and  re-read  with  an 
untiring,  an  unending,  assiduity.  There,  he  was  con- 
vinced, all  truth  was  to  be  found;  and  he  was  equally 
convinced  that  he  could  find  it.  The  doubts  of  philoso- 
phers, the  investigations  of  commentators,  the  smiles  of 
men  of  the  world,  the  dogmas  of  Churches — such  things 
meant  nothing  to  the  Colonel.  Two  facts  alone  were  evi- 
dent: there  was  the  Bible,  and  there  was  himself;  and  all 
that  remained  to  be  done  was  for  him  to  discover  what 
were  the  Bible's  instructions,  and  to  act  accordingly.  In 
order  to  make  this  discovery  it  was  only  necessary  for  him 


252  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

to  read  the  Bible  over  and  over  again;  and  therefore,  for 
the  rest  of  his  life,  he  did  so. 

The  faith  that  he  evolved  was  mystical  and  fatalistic; 
it  was  also  highly  unconventional.  His  creed,  based  upon 
the  narrow  foundations  of  Jewish  Scripture,  eked  out 
occasionally  by  some  English  evangelical  manual,  was 
yet  wide  enough  to  ignore  every  doctrinal  difference,  and 
even,  at  moments,  to  transcend  the  bounds  of  Chris- 
tianity itself.  The  just  man  was  he  who  submitted  to 
the  Will  of  God,  and  the  Will  of  God,  inscrutable  and 
absolute,  could  be  served  aright  only  by  those  who 
turned  away  from  earthly  desires  and  temporal  tempta- 
tions, to  rest  themselves  whole-heartedly  upon  the  in- 
dwelling Spirit.  Human  beings  were  the  transitory 
embodiments  of  souls  who  had  existed  through  an  infi- 
nite past  and  would  continue  to  exist  through  an  infinite 
future.  The  world  was  vanity;  the  flesh  was  dust  and 
ashes. 

A  man  [Gordon  wrote  to  his  sister]  who  knows  not  the  secret, 
who  has  not  the  indwelling  of  God  revealed   to  him,  is  like 


this —  (     VJy     \  ^  He  takes  the  promises  and  curses  as  addressed 


to  him  as  one  man,  and  will  not  hear  of  there  being  any  birth 
before  his  natural  birth,  in  any  existence  except  with  the  body 
he  is  in.  The  man  to  whom  the  secret  (the  indwelling  of  God) 


is  revealed  is  like  this —  I     ^^     J  .     He  applies  the  promises 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    253 

to  one  and  the  curses  to  the  other,  if  disobedient,  which  he  must 
be,  except  the  soul  is  enabled  by  God  to  rule.  He  then  sees  he  is 
not  of  this  world;  for  when  he  speaks  of  himself  he  quite 
disregards  the  body  his  soul  lives  in,  which  is  earthy. 

Such  conceptions  are  familiar  enough  in  the  history 
of  religious  thought:  they  are  those  of  the  hermit  and 
the  fakir;  and  it  might  have  been  expected  that,  when 
once  they  had  taken  hold  upon  his  mind,  Gordon  would 
have  been  content  to  lay  aside  the  activities  of  his  pro- 
fession, and  would  have  relapsed  at  last  into  the  com- 
plete retirement  of  holy  meditation.  But  there  were  other 
elements  in  his  nature,  which  urged  him  towards  a  very 
different  course.  He  was  no  simple  quietist.  He  was  an 
English  gentleman,  an  officer,  a  man  of  energy  and 
action,  a  lover  of  danger  and  the  audacities  that  defeat 
danger,  a  passionate  creature,  flowing  over  with  the  self- 
assertiveness  of  independent  judgment  and  the  arbitrary 
temper  of  command.  Whatever  he  might  find  in  his 
pocket-Bible,  it  was  not  for  such  as  he  to  dream  out  his 
days  in  devout  obscurity.  But,  conveniently  enough,  he 
found  nothing  in  his  pocket-Bible  indicating  that  he 
should.  What  he  did  find  was  that  the  Will  of  God  was 
inscrutable  and  absolute;  that  it  v/as  a  man's  duty  to  fol- 
low where  God's  hand  led;  and,  if  God's  hand  led  towards 
violent  excitements  and  extraordinary  vicissitudes,  that 
it  was  not  only  futile,  it  was  impious,  to  turn  another 
way.  Fatalism  is  always  apt  to  be  a  double-edged  phi- 
losophy; for  while,  on  the  one  hand,  it  reveals  the 
minutest  occurrences  as  the  immutable  result  of  a  rigid 
chain  of  infinitely  predestined  causes,  on  the  other,  it 
invests  the  wildest  incoherencies  of  conduct  or  of  cir- 
cumstance with  the  sanctity  of  eternal  law.  And  Gordon's 
fatalism  was  no  exception.  The  same  doctrine  that  led  him 


2  54  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

to  dally  with  omens,  to  search  for  prophetic  texts,  and 
to  append,  in  brackets,  the  apotropaic  initials  D.V.  after 
every  statement  in  his  letters  implying  futurity,  led  him 
also  to  envisage  his  moods  and  his  desires,  his  passing 
reckless  whims  and  his  deep  unconscious  instincts,  as  the 
mysterious  manifestations  of  the  indwelling  God.  That 
there  was  danger  lurking  in  such  a  creed  he  was  very  v/ell 
aware.  The  grosser  temptations  of  the  world — money  and 
the  vulgar  attributes  of  power — had,  indeed,  no  charms 
for  him;  but  there  were  subtler  and  more  insinuating 
allurements  v/hich  it  was  not  so  easy  to  resist.  More  than 
one  observer  declared  that  ambition  was,  in  reality,  the 
essential  motive  in  his  life — ambition,  neither  for  wealth 
nor  titles,  but  for  fame  and  influence,  for  the  swaying 
of  m.ultitudes,  and  for  that  kind  of  enlarged  and  intensi- 
fied existence  "where  breath  breathes  most — even  in  the 
mouths  of  m.en."  Was  it  so?  In  the  depths  of  Gordon's  soul 
there  were  intertwining  contradictions — intricate  recesses 
where  egoism  and  renunciation  melted  into  one  another, 
where  the  flesh  lost  itself  in  the  spirit,  and  the  spirit  in  the 
flesh.  What  was  the  Will  of  God?  The  question,  which  first 
became  insistent  during  his  retirement  at  Gravesend, 
never  afterwards  left  him:  it  might  almost  be  said  that  he 
spent  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  searching  for  the  answer 
to  it.  In  all  his  Odysseys,  in  all  his  strange  and  agitated 
adventures,  a  day  never  passed  on  which  he  neglected  the 
voice  of  eternal  wisdom  as  it  spoke  through  the  words  of 
Paul  or  Solomon,  of  Jonah  or  Habakkuk.  He  opened  his 
Bible,  he  read,  and  then  he  noted  down  his  reflections  upon 
scraps  of  paper,  which,  periodically  pinned  together,  he 
dispatched  to  one  or  other  of  his  religious  friends,  and 
particularly  his  sister  Augusta.  The  published  extracts 
from  these  voluminous  outpourings  lay  bare  the  inner  his- 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    255 

tory  of  Gordon's  spirit,  and  revealed  the  pious  visionary  of 
Gravesend  in  the  restless  hero  of  three  continents. 

His  seclusion  came  to  an  end  in  a  distinctly  providential 
manner.  In  accordance  with  a  stipulation  in  the  Treaty  of 
Paris,  an  international  commission  had  been  appointed  to 
improve  the  navigation  of  the  Danube;  and  Gordon,  who 
had  acted  on  a  similar  body  fifteen  years  earlier,  was  sent 
out  to  represent  Great  Britain.  At  Constantinople,  he 
chanced  to  meet  the  Egyptian  minister,  Nubar  Pasha. 
The  Governorship  of  the  Equatorial  Provinces  of  the 
Sudan  was  about  to  fall  vacant;  and  Nubar  offered  the 
post  to  Gordon,  who  accepted  it. 

For  some  wise  design  [he  wrote  to  his  sister]  God  turns  events 
one  way  or  another,  whether  man  likes  it  or  not,  as  a  man 
driving  a  horse  turns  it  to  right  or  left  without  consideration 
as  to  whether  the  horse  likes  that  way  or  not.  To  be  happy,  a 
man  must  be  like  a  well-broken,  willing  horse,  ready  for  any- 
thing. Events  will  go  as  God  likes. 

And  then  followed  six  years  of  extraordinary,  des- 
perate, unceasing,  and  ungrateful  labour.  The  unexplored 
and  pestilential  region  of  Equatoria,  stretching  south- 
wards to  the  great  lakes  and  the  sources  of  the  Nile,  had 
been  annexed  to  Egypt  by  the  Khedive  Ismail,  who,  while 
he  squandered  his  millions  on  Parisian  ballet-dancers, 
dreamt  strange  dreams  of  glory  and  empire.  Those  dim 
tracts  of  swamp  and  forest  in  Central  Africa  were — so  he 
declared — to  be  "opened  up,"  they  were  to  receive  the 
blessings  of  civilisation,  they  were  to  become  a  source  of 
eternal  honour  to  himself  and  Egypt.  The  slave-trade, 
which  flourished  there,  was  to  be  put  down;  the  Savage 
inhabitants  were  to  become  acquainted  with  freedom, 
justice,  and  prosperity.  Incidentally,  a  government  mo- 
nopoly in  ivory  was  to  be  established,  and  the  place  was 


2$6  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

to  be  made  a  paying  concern.  Ismail,  hopelessly  in  debt 
to  a  horde  of  European  creditors,  looked  to  Europe  to 
support  him  in  his  schemes.  Europe,  and,  in  particular, 
England,  with  her  passion  for  extraneous  philanthropy, 
was  not  averse.  Sir  Samuel  Baker  became  the  first  Governor 
of  Equatoria,  and  now  Gordon  was  to  carry  on  the  good 
work.  In  such  circumstances  it  was  only  natural  that 
Gordon  should  consider  himself  a  special  instrument  in 
God's  hand.  To  put  his  disinterestedness  beyond  doubt, 
he  reduced  his  salary,  which  had  been  fixed  at  £10,000,  to 
£2000.  He  took  over  his  new  duties  early  in  1874,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  he  had  a  first  hint  of  disillusionment. 
On  his  way  up  the  Nile,  he  was  received  in  state  at  Khar- 
toum by  the  Egyptian  Governor-General  of  the  Sudan, 
his  immediate  official  superior.  The  function  ended  in  a 
prolonged  banquet,  followed  by  a  mixed  ballet  of  soldiers 
and  completely  naked  young  women,  who  danced  in  a 
circle,  beat  time  with  their  feet,  and  accompanied  their  ges- 
tures with  a  curious  sound  of  clucking.  At  last  the  Aus- 
trian Consul,  overcome  by  the  exhilaration  of  the  scene, 
flung  himself  in  a  frenzy  among  the  dancers;  the 
Governor-General,  shouting  with  delight,  seemed  about 
to  follow  suit,  when  Gordon  abruptly  left  the  room,  and 
the  party  broke  up  in  confusion. 

When,  fifteen  hundred  miles  to  the  southward,  Gordon 
reached  the  seat  of  his  government,  and  the  desolation  of 
the  Tropics  closed  over  him,  the  agonising  nature  of  his 
task  stood  fully  revealed.  For  the  next  three  years  he 
struggled  with  enormous  difficulties — with  the  confused 
and  horrible  country,  the  appalling  climate,  the  madden- 
ing insects  and  the  loathsome  diseases,  the  indifference  of 
subordinates  and  superiors,  the  savagery  of  the  slave- 
traders,  the  hatred  of  the  Inhabitants.  One  by  one  the 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    257 

small  company  of  his  European  staff  succumbed.  With  a 
few  hundred  Egyptian  soldiers,  he  had  to  suppress  insur- 
rections, make  roads,  establish  fortified  posts,  and  enforce 
the  government  monopoly  of  ivory.  All  this  he  accom- 
plished; he  even  succeeded  in  sending  enough  money  to 
Cairo  to  pay  for  the  expenses  of  the  expedition.  But  a 
deep  gloom  had  fallen  upon  his  spirit.  When,  after  a 
series  of  incredible  obstacles  had  been  overcome,  a  steamer 
was  launched  upon  the  unexplored  Albert  Nyanza,  he 
turned  his  back  upon  the  lake,  leaving  the  glory  of  its 
navigation  to  his  Italian  lieutenant,  Gessi.  "I  wish,"  he 
wrote,  "to  give  a  practical  proof  of  what  I  think  regarding 
the  inordinate  praise  which  is  given  to  an  explorer." 
Among  his  distresses  and  self-mortifications,  he  loathed 
the  thought  of  all  such  honours,  and  remembered  the  at- 
tentions of  English  society  with  a  snarl. 

When,  D.V.,  I  get  home,  I  do  not  dine  out.  My  reminiscences  of 
these  lands  will  not  be  more  pleasant  to  me  than  the  China  ones. 
What  I  shall  have  done  will  be  what  I  have  done.  Men  think 
giving  dinners  is  conferring  a  favour  on  you.  .  .  .  Why  not  give 
dinners  to  those  who  need  them? 

No!  His  heart  was  set  upon  a  very  different  object. 

To  each  is  allotted  a  distinct  work,  to  each  a  destined  goal;  to 
some  the  seat  at  the  right-hand  or  left  of  the  Saviour.  (It  was 
not  His  to  give;  it  was  already  given — Matthew  xx.  23.  Again, 
Judas  went  to  ''his  own  place" — Acts  i.  25.)  It  is  difficult  to  the 
flesh  to  accept  "Ye  are  dead,  ye  have  naught  to  do  with  the 
world."  How  difficult  for  any  one  to  be  circumcised  from 
the  world,  to  be  as  indifferent  to  its  pleasures,  its  sorrows,  and  its 
<;omforts  as  a  corpse  is!  That  is  to  know  the  resxirrection. 

But  the  Holy  Book  was  not  his  only  solace.  For  now, 
ander  the  parching  African  sun,  we  catch  glimpses,  for 


258  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

the  first  time,  of  Gordon's  hand  stretching  out  to^v^ards 
stimulants  of  a  more  material  quality.  For  months  to- 
gether, we  are  told,  he  would  drink  nothing  but  pure 
water;  and  then  .  .  .  water  that  was  not  so  pure.  In  his  fits 
of  melancholy,  he  would  shut  himself  up  in  his  tent  for 
days  at  a  time,  with  a  hatchet  and  a  flag  placed  at  the  door 
to  indicate  that  he  was  not  to  be  disturbed  for  any  reason 
whatever;  until  at  last  the  cloud  would  lift,  the  signals 
would  be  removed,  and  the  Governor  would  reappear, 
brisk  and  cheerful.  During  one  of  these  retirements,  there 
was  grave  danger  of  a  native  attack  upon  the  camp. 
Colonel  Long,  the  Chief-of-Staff,  ventured,  after  some 
hesitation,  to  ignore  the  flag  and  hatchet,  and  to  enter 
the  forbidden  tent.  He  found  Gordon  seated  at  a  table, 
upon  which  v/ere  an  open  Bible  and  an  open  bottle 
of  brandy.  Long  explained  the  circumstances,  but  could 
obtain  no  answer  beyond  the  abrupt  words — "You  are 
commander  of  the  camp," — and  was  obliged  to  retire, 
nonplussed,  to  deal  with  the  situation  as  best  he  could.  On 
the  following  morning  Gordon,  cleanly  shaven,  and  in  the 
full-dress  uniform  of  the  Royal  Engineers,  entered  Long's 
hut  with  his  usual  tripping  step,  exclaiming — "Old  fel- 
low, now  don't  be  angry  with  me.  I  was  very  low  last 
night.  Let's  have  a  good  breakfast — a  little  b.  and  s.  Do 
you  feel  up  to  it?"  And,  with  these  veering  moods  and 
dangerous  restoratives,  there  came  an  intensification  of 
the  queer  and  violent  elements  in  the  temper  of  the  man. 
His  eccentricities  grew  upon  him.  He  found  it  more  and 
more  uncomfortable  to  follow  the  ordinary  course.  Official 
routine  was  an  agony  to  him.  His  caustic  and  satirical 
humour  expressed  itself  in  a  style  that  astounded  govern- 
ment departments.  While  he  gibed  at  his  superiors,  his 
subordinates  learnt  to  dread  the  explosions  of  his  wrath. 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    259 

There  were  moments  when  his  passion  became  utterly 
ungovernable;  and  the  gentle  soldier  of  God,  who  had 
spent  the  day  in  quoting  texts  for  the  edification  of 
his  sister,  would  slap  the  face  of  his  Arab  aide-de-camp 
in  a  sudden  access  of  fury  or  set  upon  his  Alsatian  serv- 
ant and  kick  him  till  he  screamed. 

At  the  end  of  three  years,  Gordon  resigned  his  post  in 
Equatoria,  and  prepared  to  return  home.  But  again 
Providence  intervened:  the  Khedive  offered  him,  as  an 
inducement  to  remain  in  the  Egyptian  service,  a  position 
of  still  higher  consequence — the  Governor-Generalship 
of  the  whole  Sudan;  and  Gordon  once  more  took  up  his 
task.  Another  three  years  were  passed  in  grappling  with 
vast  revolting  provinces,  with  the  ineradicable  iniquities 
of  the  slave-trade,  with  all  the  complications  of  weakness 
and  corruption  incident  to  an  oriental  administration  ex- 
tending over  almost  boundless  tracts  of  savage  territory 
which  had  never  been  effectively  subdued.  His  head- 
quarters were  fixed  in  the  palace  at  Khartoum ;  but  there 
were  various  interludes  in  his  government.  Once,  when 
the  Khedive's  finances  had  become  peculiarly  embroiled, 
he  summon  Gordon  to  Cairo,  to  preside  over  a  commission 
which  should  set  matters  to  rights.  Gordon  accepted  the 
post,  but  soon  found  that  his  situation  was  untenable. 
He  was  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea — between  the 
unscrupulous  cunning  of  the  Egyptian  Pashas  and  the 
immeasurable  immensity  of  the  Khedive's  debts  to  his 
European  creditors.  The  Pashas  were  anxious  to  use  him 
as  a  respectable  mask  for  their  own  nefarious  dealings;  and 
the  representatives  of  the  European  creditors,  who  looked 
upon  him  as  an  irresponsible  intruder,  were  anxious 
simply  to  get  rid  of  him  as  soon  as  they  could.  One  of 
these    representatives    was    Sir    Evelyn    Baring,    whom 


26o  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Gordon  now  met  for  the  first  time.  An  immediate  an- 
tagonism flashed  out  between  the  two  men.  But  their  hos- 
tility had  no  time  to  mature;  for  Gordon,  baffled  on  all 
sides,  and  deserted  even  by  the  Khedive,  precipitately 
returned  to  nis  Governor-Generalship.  Whatever  else 
Providence  might  have  decreed,  it  had  certainly  not  de- 
cided that  he  should  be  a  financier. 

His  tastes  and  his  talents  were  indeed  of  a  very  different 
kind.  In  his  absence,  a  rebellion  had  broken  out  in  Darfour 
— one  of  the  vast  outlying  provinces  of  his  government — 
where  a  native  chieftain,  Zobeir,  had  erected,  on  a  basis 
of  slave-traffic,  a  dangerous  military  power.  Zobeir  him- 
self had  been  lured  to  Cairo,  where  he  was  detained  in 
a  state  of  semi-captivity;  but  his  son,  Suleiman,  ruled  in 
his  stead,  and  was  now  defying  the  Governor-General. 
Gordon  determined  upon  a  hazardous  stroke.  He  mounted 
a  camel,  and  rode,  alone,  in  the  blazing  heat,  across  eighty- 
five  miles  of  desert,  to  Suleiman's  camp.  His  sudden  appa- 
rition dumbfounded  the  rebels;  his  imperious  bearing 
over-awed  them;  he  signified  to  them  that  in  two  days 
they  must  disarm  and  disperse;  and  the  whole  host  obeyed. 
Gordon  returned  to  Khartoum  in  triumph.  But  he  had 
not  heard  the  last  of  Suleiman.  Flying  southwards  from 
Darfour  to  the  neighbouring  province  of  Bahr-el-Ghazal, 
the  young  man  was  soon  once  more  at  the  head  of  a 
formidable  force.  A  prolonged  campaign,  of  extreme 
difficulty  and  danger,  followed.  Eventually,  Gordon, 
summoned  again  to  Cairo,  was  obliged  to  leave  to  Gessi 
the  task  of  finally  crushing  the  revolt.  After  a  brilliant 
campaign,  Gessi  forced  Suleiman  to  surrender,  and  then 
shot  him  as  a  rebel.  The  deed  was  to  exercise  a  curious 
influence  upon  Gordon's  fate. 

Though  Suleiman  had  been  killed  andhis  power  broken, 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    zSl 

the  slave-trade  still  flourished  in  the  Sudan.  Gordon's 
efforts  to  suppress  it  resembled  the  palliatives  of  an  em- 
piric treating  the  superficial  symptoms  of  some  profound 
constitutional  disease.  The  root  of  the  malady  lay  in  the 
slave-markets  of  Cairo  and  Constantinople:  the  supply 
followed  the  demand.  Gordon,  after  years  of  labour, 
might  here  and  there  stop  up  a  spring  or  divert  a  tribu- 
tary, but,  somehow  or  other,  the  waters  would  reach  the 
river-bed.  In  the  end,  he  himself  came  to  recognise  this. 
"When  you  have  got  the  ink  that  has  soaked  into  blotting- 
paper  out  of  it,"  he  said,  "then  slavery  will  cease  in  these 
lands."  And  yet  he  struggled  desperately  on;  it  was  not  for 
him  to  murmur.  "I  feel  my  own  weakness,  and  look  to 
Him  who  is  Almighty,  and  I  leave  the  issue  without  in- 
ordinate care  to  Him." 

Relief  came  at  last.  The  Khedive  Ismail  was  deposed; 
and  Gordon  felt  at  liberty  to  send  in  his  resignation.  Be- 
fore he  left  Egypt,  however,  he  was  to  experience  yet  one 
more  remarkable  adventure.  At  his  own  request,  he  set 
out  on  a  diplomatic  mission  to  the  Negus  of  Abyssinia. 
The  mission  was  a  complete  failure.  The  Negus  was  in- 
tractable, and,  when  his  bribes  were  refused,  furious. 
Gordon  was  ignominiously  dismissed;  every  insult  was 
heaped  on  him;  he  was  arrested,  and  obliged  to  traverse 
the  Abyssinian  Mountains  in  the  depths  of  winter  under 
the  escort  of  a  savage  troop  of  horse.  When,  after  great 
hardships  and  dangers,  he  reached  Cairo,  he  found  the 
whole  official  world  up  in  arms  against  him.  The  Pashas 
had  determined  at  last  that  they  had  no  further  use  for  this 
honest  and  peculiar  Englishman.  It  was  arranged  that  one 
of  his  confidential  dispatches  should  be  published  in  the 
newspapers;  naturally,  it  contained  indiscretions;  there 
was  a  universal  outcry — the  man  was  insubordinate,  and 


262  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

mad.  He  departed  under  a  storm  of  obloquy.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  he  should  ever  return  to  Egypt. 

On  his  way  home,  he  stopped  in  Paris,  saw  the  English 
Ambassador,  Lord  Lyons,  and  speedily  came  into  conflict 
with  him  over  Egyptian  affairs.  There  ensued  a  heated 
correspondence,  which  was  finally  closed  by  a  letter  from 
Gordon,  ending  as  follows: — 

I  have  some  comfort  in  thinking  that  in  ten  or  fifteen  years'  time 
it  will  matter  little  to  either  of  us.  A  black  box,  six  feet  six 
by  three  feet  wide  will  then  contain  all  that  is  left  of  Ambassa- 
dor, or  Cabinet  Minister,  or  of  your  humble  and  obedient  servant. 

He  arrived  in  England  early  in  1880  ill  and  exhausted; 
and  it  might  have  been  supposed  that  after  the  terrible 
activities  of  his  African  exile  he  would  have  been  ready 
to  rest.  But  the  very  opposite  was  the  case:  the  next 
three  years  were  the  most  mouvementes  of  his  life.  He 
hurried  from  post  to  post,  from  enterprise  to  enterprise, 
from  continent  to  continent,  with  a  vertiginous  rapidity. 
He  accepted  the  Private  Secretaryship  to  Lord  Ripon,  the 
new  Viceroy  of  India,  and,  three  days  after  his  arrival 
at  Bombay,  he  resigned.  He  had  suddenly  realised  that 
he  was  not  cut  out  for  a  Private  Secretary,  when,  on  an 
address  being  sent  in  from  some  deputation,  he  was  asked 
to  say  that  the  Viceroy  had  read  it  with  interest.  "You 
know  perfectly,"  he  said  to  Lord  William  Beresford,  "that 
Lord  Ripon  has  never  read  it,  and  I  can't  say  that  sort  of 
thing,  so  I  will  resign,  and  you  take  in  my  resignation." 
He  confessed  to  Lord  William  that  the  world  was  not  big 
enough  for  him,  that  there  was  "no  king  or  country  big 
enough";  and  then  he  added,  hitting  him  on  the  shoulder, 
"Yes,  that  is  flesh,  that  is  what  I  hate,  and  what  makes  me 
wish  to  die." 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    26} 

Two  days  later,  he  was  off  for  Pekin.  "Everyone  will 
say  I  am  mad,"  were  his  last  words  to  Lord  William 
Beresford;  "but  you  say  I  am  not."  The  position  in  China 
Was  critical;  war  with  Russia  appeared  to  be  imminent; 
and  Gordon  had  been  appealed  to,  in  order  to  use  his  influ- 
ence on  the  side  of  peace.  He  was  welcomed  by  many  old 
friends  of  former  days,  among  them  Li  Hung  Chang, 
whose  diplomatic  views  coincided  with  his  own.  Li's  diplo- 
matic language,  however,  was  less  unconventional.  In  an 
interview  with  the  Ministers,  Gordon's  expressions  were 
such  that  the  interpreter  shook  with  terror,  upset  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  finally  refused  to  translate  the  dreadful  words; 
upon  which  Gordon  snatched  up  a  dictionary,  and,  with 
his  finger  on  the  word  "idiocy,"  showed  it  to  the  startled 
mandarins.  A  few  weeks  later,  Li  Hung  Chang  was  in 
power,  and  peace  was  assured.  Gordon  had  spent  two  and 
a  half  days  in  Pekin,  and  was  whirling  through  China, 
when  a  telegram  arrived  from  the  home  authorities,  who 
viewed  his  movements  with  uneasiness,  ordering  him  to 
return  at  once  to  England.  "It  did  not  produce  a  twitter 
in  me,"  he  wrote  to  his  sister;  "I  died  long  ago,  and  it  will 
not  make  any  difference  to  me;  I  am  prepared  to  follow 
the  unrolling  of  the  scroll."  The  world,  perhaps,  was  not 
big  enough  for  him ;  and  yet  how  clearly  he  recognised  that 
he  was  "a  poor  insect!"  "My  heart  tells  me  that,  and  I  am 
glad  of  it." 

On  his  return  to  England,  he  telegraphed  to  the  Govern- 
ment of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  which  had  become  in- 
volved in  a  war  with  the  Basutos,  offering  his  services;  but 
his  telegram  received  no  reply.  Just  then,  Sir  Howard  El- 
phinstone  was  appointed  to  the  command  of  the  Royal 
Engineers  in  Mauritius.  It  was  a  thankless  and  insignifi- 
cant post;  and,  rather  than  accept  it,  Elphinstone  was 


264  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

prepared  to  retire  from  the  army — unless  some  other  of- 
ficer could  be  induced,  in  return  for  £800,  to  act  as  his 
substitute.  Gordon,  who  was  an  old  friend,  agreed  to 
undertake  the  work — upon  one  condition:  that  he  should 
receive  nothing  from  Elphinstone;  and  accordingly  he 
spent  the  next  year  in  that  remote  and  unhealthy  island, 
looking  after  the  barrack  repairs  and  testing  the  drains. 
While  he  was  thus  engaged,  the  Cape  Government,  whose 
difficulties  had  been  increasing,  changed  its  mind,  and 
early  in  1882  begged  for  Gordon's  help.  Once  more  he 
was  involved  in  great  affairs:  a  new  field  of  action  opened 
before  him;  and  then,  in  a  moment,  there  was  another 
shift  of  the  kaleidoscope,  and  again  he  was  thrown  upon 
the  world.  Within  a  few  weeks,  after  a  violent  quarrel 
with  the  Cape  authorities,  his  mission  had  come  to  an  end. 
What  should  he  do  next?  To  what  remote  corner  or 
what  enormous  stage,  to  what  self-sacrificing  drudgeries, 
or  what  resounding  exploits,  would  the  hand  of  God  lead 
him  now?  He  waited,  in  an  odd  hesitation.  He  opened  the 
Bible,  but  neither  the  prophecies  of  Hosea  nor  the  epistles 
to  Timothy  gave  him  any  advice.  The  King  of  the  Bel- 
gians asked  if  he  would  be  willing  to  go  to  the  Congo. 
He  was  perfectly  willing;  he  would  go  whenever  the  King 
of  the  Belgians  sent  for  him;  his  services,  however,  were 
not  required  yet.  It  was  at  this  juncture  that  he  betook 
himself  to  Palestine.  His  studies  there  were  embodied  in 
a  correspondence  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barnes,  filling  over 
two  thousand  pages  of  manuscHpt — a  correspondence 
which  was  only  put  an  end  to  when,  at  last,  the  summons 
from  the  King  of  the  Belgians  came.  He  hurried  back  to 
England;  but  it  was  not  to  the  Congo  that  he  was  being 
led  by  the  hand  of  God. 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    26^ 

Gordon's  last  great  adventure,  like  his  first,  was  occa- 
sioned by  a  religious  revolt.  At  the  very  moment  when, 
apparently  for  ever,  he  was  shaking  the  dust  of  Egypt 
from  his  feet,  Mohammed  Ahmed  was  starting  upon  his 
extraordinary  career  in  the  Sudan.  The  time  was  pro- 
pitious for  revolutions.  The  effete  Egyptian  Empire  was 
hovering  upon  the  verge  of  collapse.  The  enormous  terri- 
tories of  the  Sudan  were  seething  with  discontent.  Gor- 
don's administration  had,  by  its  very  vigour,  only  helped 
to  precipitate  the  inevitable  disaster.  His  attacks  upon 
the  slave-trade,  his  establishment  of  a  government  mo- 
nopoly in  ivory,  his  hostility  to  the  Egyptian  officials, 
had  been  so  many  shocks,  shaking  to  its  foundations  the 
whole  rickety  machine.  The  result  of  all  his  efforts  had 
been,  on  the  one  hand,  to  fill  the  most  powerful  classes 
in  the  community — the  dealers  in  slaves  and  ivory — with 
a  hatred  of  the  government,  and  on  the  other  to  awaken 
among  the  mass  of  the  inhabitants  a  new  perception  of 
the  dishonesty  and  incompetence  of  their  Egyptian  mas- 
ters. When,  after  Gordon's  removal,  the  rule  of  the  Pashaa* 
once  more  asserted  itself  over  the  Sudan,  a  general  com- 
bustion became  inevitable:  the  first  spark  would  set  off 
the  blaze.  Just  then  it  happened  that  Mohammed  Ahmed, 
the  son  of  an  insignificant  priest  in  Dongola,  having  quar- 
relled with  the  Sheikh  from  whom  he  was  receiving  re- 
ligious instruction,  set  up  as  an  independent  preacher, 
with  his  headquarters  at  Abba  Island,  on  the  Nile,  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles  above  Khartoum.  Like  Hong-siu- 
tsuen,  he  began  as  a  religious  reformer,  and  ended  as  a 
rebel  king.  It  was  his  mission,  he  declared,  to  purge  the 
true  Faith  of  its  worldliness  and  corruptions,  to  lead  the 
followers  of  the  Prophet  into  the  paths  of  chastity,  sim^ 
plicity,  and  holiness ;  with  the  puritanical  zeal  of  a  Calvin j 


266  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

he  denounced  Junketings  and  merry-makings,  songs  and 
dances,  lewd  living  and  all  the  delights  of  the  flesh.  He 
fell  into  trances,  he  saw  visions,  he  saw  the  Prophet  and 
Jesus,  and  the  Angel  Izrail  accompanying  him  and  watch- 
ing over  him  for  ever.  He  prophesied,  and  performed 
miracles,  and  his  fame  spread  through  the  land. 

There  is  an  ancient  tradition  in  the  Mohammedan 
world,  telling  of  a  mysterious  being,  the  last  in  succession 
of  the  twelve  holy  Imams,  who,  untouched  by  death  and 
withdrawn  into  the  recesses  of  a  mountain,  was  destined, 
at  the  appointed  hour,  to  come  forth  again  among  men. 
His  title  was  the  Mahdi,  the  guide;  some  believed  that  he 
would  be  the  forerunner  of  the  Messiah;  others  that  he 
would  be  Christ  himself.  Already  various  Mahdis  had 
made  their  appearance;  several  had  been  highly  success- 
ful, and  two,  in  mediaeval  times,  had  founded  dynasties 
in  Egypt.  But  who  could  tell  whether  all  these  were  not 
impostors?  Might  not  the  twelfth  Imam  be  still  waiting, 
in  mystical  concealment,  ready  to  emerge,  at  any  mo- 
ment, at  the  bidding  of  God?  There  were  signs  by  which 
the  true  Mahdi  might  be  recognised — unmistakable  signs, 
if  one  could  but  read  them  aright.  He  must  be  of  the 
family  of  the  prophet ;  he  must  possess  miraculous  powers 
of  no  common  kind;  and  his  person  must  be  overflowing 
with  a  peculiar  sanctity.  The  pious  dwellers  beside  those 
distant  waters,  where  holy  men  by  dint  of  a  constant  repe- 
tition of  one  of  the  ninety-nine  names  of  God,  secured 
the  protection  of  guardian  angels,  and  where  groups  of 
devotees,  shaking  their  heads  with  a  violence  which  would 
unseat  the  reason  of  less  athletic  worshippers,  attained  to 
an  extraordinary  beatitude,  heard  with  awe  of  the  young 
preacher  whose  saintliness  was  almost  more  than  mortal 
and  whose  miracles  brought  amazement  to  the  mind.  Was 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    z6y 

he  not  also  of  the  family  of  the  prophet?  He  himself  had 
said  so;  and  who  would  disbelieve  the  holy  man?  When 
he  appeared  in  person,  every  doubt  was  swept  away.  There 
was  a  strange  splendour  in  his  presence,  an  overpowering 
passion  in  the  torrent  of  his  speech.  Great  was  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  people,  and  great  was  their  punishment!  Surely 
their  miseries  were  a  visible  sign  of  the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 
They  had  sinned,  and  the  cruel  tax-gatherers  had  come 
among  them,  and  the  corrupt  governors,  and  all  the  op- 
pressions of  the  Egyptians.  Yet  these  things,  too,  should 
have  an  end.  The  Lord  would  raise  up  his  chosen  deliverer: 
the  hearts  of  the  people  would  be  purified,  and  their  ene- 
mies would  be  laid  low.  The  accursed  Egyptian  would  be 
driven  from  the  land.  Let  the  faithful  take  heart  and 
make  ready.  How  soon  might  not  the  long-predestined 
hour  strike,  when  the  twelfth  Imam,  the  guide,  the  Mahdi, 
would  reveal  himself  to  the  World?  In  that  hour,  the 
righteous  would  triumph  and  the  guilty  be  laid  low  for 
ever.  Such  was  the  teaching  of  Mahommed  Ahmed.  A 
band  of  enthusiastic  disciples  gathered  round  him,  eagerly 
waiting  for  the  revelation  which  would  crown  their  hopes. 
At  last,  the  moment  came.  One  evening,  at  Abba  Island, 
taking  aside  the  foremost  of  his  followers,  the  Master 
whispered  the  portentous  news.  He  was  the  Mahdi. 

The  Egyptian  Governor-General  at  Khartoum,  hearing 
that  a  religious  movement  was  on  foot,  grew  disquieted, 
and  dispatched  an  emissary  to  Abba  Island  to  summon  the 
impostor  to  his  presence.  The  emissary  was  courteously 
received.  Mahommed  Ahmed,  he  said,  must  come  at  once 
to  Khartoum.  "Must!"  exclaimed  the  Mahdi,  starting  to 
his  feet,  with  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes.  The  look  was  so 
strange  that  the  emissary  thought  it  advisable  to  cut  short 
the  interview  and  to  return  to  Khartoum  empty-handed. 


l6S  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

Thereupon  the  Governor-General  sent  two  hundred  sol- 
diers to  seize  the  audacious  rebel  by  force.  With  his  hand- 
ful of  friends,  the  Mahdi  fell  upon  the  soldiers  and  cut 
them  to  pieces.  The  news  spread  like  wild-fire  through  the 
country:  the  Mahdi  had  arisen,  the  Egyptians  were  de- 
stroyed. But  it  was  clear  to  the  little  band  of  enthusiasts 
at  Abba  Island  that  their  position  on  the  river  was  no 
longer  tenable.  The  Mahdi,  deciding  upon  a  second  Hegira, 
retreated  southwestward,  into  the  depths  of  Kordofan. 

The  retreat  was  a  triumphal  progress.  The  country, 
groaning  under  alien  misgovernment  and  vibrating  with 
religious  excitement,  suddenly  found  in  this  rebellious 
prophet  a  rallying  point,  a  hero,  a  deliverer.  And  now 
another  element  was  added  to  the  forces  of  insurrection. 
The  Baggara  tribes  of  Kordofan,  cattle-owners  and  slave- 
traders,  the  most  warlike  and  vigorous  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Sudan,  threw  in  their  lot  with  the  Mahdi.  Their 
powerful  emirs,  still  smarting  from  the  blows  of  Gordon, 
saw  that  the  opportunity  for  revenge  had  come.  A  holy 
war  was  proclaimed  against  the  Egyptian  misbelievers. 
The  followers  of  the  Mahdi,  dressed,  in  token  of  a  new 
austerity  of  living,  in  the  "jibbeh,"  or  white  smock  of 
coarse  cloth,  patched  with  variously  shaped  and  coloured 
patches,  were  rapidly  organised  into  a  formidable  army. 
Several  attacks  from  Khartoum  were  repulsed;  and  at  last 
the  Mahdi  felt  strong  enough  to  advance  against  the 
enemy.  While  his  lieutenants  led  detachments  into  the 
vast  provinces  lying  to  the  west  and  the  south — Darfour 
and  Bahr-el-Ghazal — he  himself  marched  upon  El  Obeid, 
the  capital  of  Kordofan.  It  was  in  vain  that  reinforce- 
ments were  hurried  from  Khartoum  to  the  assistance  of 
the  garrison:  there  was  some  severe  fighting;  the  town 
was  completely  cut  off;  and,  after  a  six  months'  siege,  It 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    2^9 

surrendered.  A  great  quantity  of  guns  and  ammunition 
and  £100,000  in  specie  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Mahdi. 
He  was  master  of  Kordofan;  he  was  at  the  head  of  a  great 
army;  he  was  rich;  he  was  worshipped.  A  dazzling  future 
opened  before  him.  No  possibility  seemed  too  remote,  no 
fortune  too  magnificent.  A  vision  of  universal  empire 
hovered  before  his  eyes.  Allah,  whose  servant  he  was,  who 
had  led  him  thus  far,  would  lead  him  onward  still,  to  the 
glorious  end. 

For  some  months  he  remained  at  El  Obeid,  consolidat- 
ing his  dominion.  In  a  series  of  circular  letters,  he  de- 
scribed his  colloquies  with  the  Almighty  and  laid  down 
the  rule  of  living  which  his  followers  were  to  pursue.  The 
faithful,  under  pain  of  severe  punishment,  were  to  return 
to  the  ascetic  simplicity  of  ancient  times.  A  criminal  code 
was  drawn  up,  meting  out  executions,  mutilations,  and 
floggings  with  a  barbaric  zeal.  The  blasphemer  was  to  be 
Instantly  hanged,  the  adulterer  was  to  be  scourged  with 
whips  of  rhinoceros  hide,  the  thief  was  to  have  his  right 
hand  and  his  left  foot  hacked  off  in  the  market-place.  No 
more  were  marriages  to  be  celebrated  with  pomp  and 
feasting,  no  more  was  the  youthful  warrior  to  swagger 
with  flowing  hair;  henceforth  the  believer  must  banquet 
on  dates  and  milk,  and  his  head  must  be  kept  shaved. 
Minor  transgressions  were  punished  by  confiscation  of 
property,  or  by  imprisonment  and  chains.  But  the  rhi- 
noceros whip  was  the  favourite  Instrument  of  chastise- 
ment. Men  were  flogged  for  drinking  a  glass  of  wine,  they 
were  flogged  for  smoking;  If  they  swore,  they  received 
eighty  lashes  for  every  expletive;  and  after  eighty  lashes 
It  v/as  a  common  thing  to  die.  Before  long,  flogging  grew 
to  be  so  everyday  an  incident  that  the  young  men  made 
a  game  of  it,  as  a  test  of  their  endurance  of  pain.  With 


270  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

this  Spartan  ferocity  there  was  mingled  the  glamour  and 
the  mystery  of  the  East.  The  Mahdi  himself,  his  four 
Khalifas,  and  the  principal  emirs,  masters  of  sudden 
riches,  surrounded  themselves  with  slaves  and  women, 
with  trains  of  horses  and  asses,  with  bodyguards  and  glit- 
tering arms.  There  were  rumours  of  debaucheries  in  high 
places;  of  the  Mahdi,  forgetful  of  his  own  ordinances, 
revelling  in  the  recesses  of  his  harem,  and  quaffing  date 
syrup  mixed  with  ginger  out  of  the  silver  cups  looted 
from  the  church  of  the  Christians.  But  that  imposing 
figure  had  only  to  show  itself  for  the  tongue  of  scandal 
to  be  stilled.  The  tall,  broad-shouldered,  majestic  man, 
with  the  dark  face  and  black  beard  and  great  eyes — who 
could  doubt  that  he  was  the  embodiment  of  a  superhuman 
power?  Fascination  dwelt  in  every  movement,  every 
glance.  The  eyes,  painted  with  antimony,  flashed  extraor- 
dinary fires;  the  exquisite  smile  revealed,  beneath  the 
vigorous  lips,  white  upper  teeth  with  a  V-shaped  space 
between  them — the  certain  sign  of  fortune.  His  turban 
was  folded  with  faultless  art;  his  jibbeh,  speckless,  was 
perfumed  with  sandal-wood,  musk,  and  attar  of  roses. 
He  was  at  once  all  courtesy  and  all  command.  Thousands 
followed  him;  thousands  prostrated  themselves  before 
him;  thousands,  when  he  lifted  up  his  voice  in  solemn 
worship,  knew  that  the  heavens  were  opened  and  that 
they  had  come  near  to  God.  Then  all  at  once  the  onbeia — ■ 
the  elephant's  tusk  trumpet — would  give  out  its  enormous 
sound.  The  nahas — the  brazen  war-drums — would  sum- 
mon, with  their  weird  rolling,  the  whole  host  to  arms. 
The  green  flag  and  the  red  flag  and  the  black  flag  would 
rise  over  the  multitude.  The  great  army  would  move  for- 
ward, coloured,  glistening,  dark,  violent,  proud,  beautiful. 
The  drunkenness,  the  madness,  of  religion  would  blaze  on 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    2/1 

every  face;  and  the  Mahdi,  Immovable  on  his  charger, 
would  let  the  scene  grow  under  his  eyes  in  silence. 

El  Obeid  fell  in  January,  1883.  Meanwhile  events  of 
the  deepest  importance  had  occurred  in  Egypt.  The  rise 
of  Arabi  had  synchronised  with  that  of  the  Mahdi.  Both 
movements  were  nationalist;  both  were  directed  against 
alien  rulers  who  had  shown  themselves  unfit  to  rule.  While 
the  Sudanese  were  shaking  off  the  yoke  of  Egypt,  the 
Egyptians  themselves  grew  impatient  of  their  own  mas- 
ters— the  Turkish  and  Circassian  Pashas  who  filled  with 
their  incompetence  all  the  high  offices  of  state.  The  army, 
led  by  Ahmed  Arabi,  a  Colonel  of  fellah  origin,  mutinied, 
the  Khedive  gave  way,  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  new  order 
were  about  to  be  established.  A  new  order  was  indeed 
upon  the  point  of  appearing:  but  it  was  of  a  kind  un- 
dreamt of  in  Arabi's  philosophy.  At  the  critical  moment, 
the  English  Government  intervened.  An  English  fleet 
bombarded  Alexandria,  an  English  army  landed  under 
Lord  Wolseley  and  defeated  Arabi  and  his  supporters  at 
Tel-el-kebir.  The  rule  of  the  Pashas  was  nominally  re- 
stored; but  henceforth,  in  effect,  the  English  were  masters 
of  Egypt. 

Nevertheless,  the  English  themselves  were  slow  to  recog- 
nise this  fact.  Their  government  had  intervened  unwill- 
ingly; the  occupation  of  the  country  was  a  merely  tempo- 
rary measure;  their  army  was  to  be  withdrawn  so  soon  as 
a  tolerable  administration  had  been  set  up.  But  a  tolerable 
administration,  presided  over  by  the  Pashas,  seemed  long 
in  coming,  and  the  English  army  remained.  In  the  mean- 
time the  Mahdi  had  entered  El  Obeid,  and  his  dominion 
was  rapidly  spreading  over  the  greater  part  of  the  Sudan. 

Then  a  terrible  catastrophe  took  place.  The  Pashas, 
happy  once  more  in  Cairo,  pulling  the  old  strings  and 


ZJZ  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

growing  fat  over  the  old  flesh-pots,  decided  to  give  the 
world  an  unmistakable  proof  of  their  renewed  vigour. 
They  would  tolerate  the  insurrection  in  the  Sudan  no 
longer;  they  would  destroy  the  Mahdi,  reduce  his  fol- 
lowers to  submission,  and  re-establish  their  own  beneficent 
rule  over  the  whole  country.  To  this  end  they  collected 
together  an  army  of  ten  thousand  men,  and  placed  it 
under  the  command  of  Colonel  Hicks,  a  retired  English 
officer.  He  was  ordered  to  advance  and  suppress  the  re- 
bellion. In  these  proceedings  the  English  Government 
refused  to  take  any  part.  Unable,  or  unwilling,  to  realise 
that,  so  long  as  there  was  an  English  army  in  Egypt,  they 
could  not  avoid  the  responsibilities  of  supreme  power,  they 
declared  that  the  domestic  policy  of  the  Egyptian  ad- 
ministration was  no  concern  of  theirs.  It  was  a  fatal  error 
— an  error  which  they  themselves,  before  many  weeks 
were  over,  were  to  be  forced  by  the  hard  logic  of  events 
to  admit.  The  Pashas,  left  to  their  own  devices,  misman- 
aged the  Hicks  expedition  to  their  hearts'  content.  The 
miserable  troops,  swept  together  from  the  relics  of  Arabi's 
disbanded  army,  were  dispatched  to  Khartoum  in  chains. 
After  a  month's  drilling  they  were  pronounced  to  be  fit 
to  attack  the  fanatics  of  the  Sudan.  Colonel  Hicks  was  a 
brave  man;  urged  on  by  the  authorities  in  Cairo,  he  shut 
his  eyes  to  the  danger  ahead  of  him,  and  marched  out  from 
Khartoum  in  the  direction  of  El  Obeid  at  the  beginning 
of  September,  1883.  Abandoning  his  communications,  he 
was  soon  deep  in  the  desolate  wastes  of  Kordofan.  As  he 
advanced,  his  difficulties  increased;  the  guides  were  treach- 
erous, the  troops  grew  exhausted,  the  supply  of  water 
gave  out.  He  pressed  on,  and  at  last,  on  November  5th, 
not  far  from  El  Obeid,  the  harassed,  fainting,  almost 
desperate  army  plunged  into  a  vast  forest  of  gum-trees 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    2/3 

and  mimosa  scrub.  There  was  a  sudden,  an  appalling  yell; 
the  Mahdi,  with  forty  thousand  of  his  finest  men,  sprang 
from  their  ambush.  The  Egyptians  were  surrounded,  and 
immediately  overpowered.  It  was  not  a  de-feat,  but  an 
annihilation.  Hicks  and  his  European  staff  were  slaugh- 
tered; the  whole  army  was  slaughtered;  three  hundred 
wounded  wretches  crept  away  into  the  forest  alive. 

The  consequences  of  this  event  were  felt  in  every  part 
of  the  Sudan.  To  the  westward,  in  Darfour,  the  Governor, 
Slatin  Pasha,  after  a  prolonged  and  valiant  resistance,  was 
forced  to  surrender,  and  the  whole  province  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  rebels.  Southwards,  in  the  Bahr-el-Ghazal, 
Lupton  Bey  was  shut  up  in  a  remote  stronghold,  while  the 
country  was  overrun.  The  Mahdi's  triumphs  were  begin- 
ning to  penetrate  even  into  the  tropical  regions  of  Equa- 
toria;  the  tribes  were  rising,  and  Emin  Pasha  was 
preparing  to  retreat  towards  the  Great  Lakes.  On  the 
East,  Osman  Digna  pushed  the  insurrection  right  up  to 
the  shores  of  the  Red  Sea,  and  laid  siege  to  Suakin.  Before 
the  year  was  over,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  isolated 
ind  surrounded  garrisons,  the  Mahdi  was  absolute  lord 
of  a  territory  equal  to  the  combined  area  of  Spain,  France, 
and  Germany;  and  his  victorious  armies  were  rapidly 
closing  round  Khartoum. 

When  the  news  of  the  Hicks  disaster  reached  Cairo, 
the  Pashas  calmly  announced  that  they  would  collect 
another  army  of  ten  thousand  men,  and  again  attack  the 
Mahdi;  but  the  English  Government  understood  at  last 
the  gravity  of  the  case.  They  saw  that  a  crisis  was  upon 
them,  and  that  they  could  no  longer  escape  the  implica- 
tions of  their  position  in  Egypt.  What  were  they  to  do? 
Were  they  to  allow  the  Egyptians  to  become  more  and 
more  deeply  involved  in  a  ruinous,  perhaps  ultimately  a 


274  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

fatal,  war  with  the  Mahdi?  And,  if  not,  what  steps  were 
they  to  take?  A  small  minority  of  the  party  then  in  power 
in  England — the  Liberal  Party — were  anxious  to  with- 
draw from  Egypt  altogether  and  at  once.  On  the  other 
hand,  another  and  a  more  influential  minority,  with  repre- 
sentatives in  the  Cabinet,  were  in  favour  of  a  more  active 
intervention  in  Egyptian  affairs — of  the  deliberate  use  of 
the  power  of  England  to  give  to  Egypt  internal  stability 
and  external  security;  they  were  ready,  if  necessary,  to 
take  the  field  against  the  Mahdi  with  English  troops.  But 
the  great  bulk  of  the  party,  and  the  Cabinet,  with  Mr. 
Gladstone  at  their  head,  preferred  a  middle  course.  Re- 
alising the  impracticability  of  an  immediate  withdrawal, 
they  were  nevertheless  determined  to  remain  in  Egypt 
not  a  moment  longer  than  was  necessary,  and,  in  the 
meantime,  to  interfere  as  little  as  possible  in  Egyptian 
affairs.  From  a  campaign  in  the  Sudan  conducted  by  an 
English  army  they  were  altogether  averse.  If,  therefore, 
the  English  army  was  not  to  be  used,  and  the  Egyptian 
army  was  not  fit  to  be  used  against  the  Mahdi,  it  followed 
that  any  attempt  to  reconquer  the  Sudan  must  be  aban- 
doned; the  remaining  Egyptian  troops  must  be  with- 
drawn, and  in  future  military  operations  must  be 
limited  to  those  of  a  strictly  defensive  kind.  Such  was  the 
decision  of  the  English  Government.  Their  determination 
was  strengthened  by  two  considerations:  in  the  first  place, 
they  saw  that  the  Mahdi's  rebellion  was  largely  a  na- 
tionalist movement,  directed  against  an  alien  power,  and, 
in  the  second  place,  the  policy  of  withdrawal  from  the 
Sudan  was  the  policy  of  their  own  representative  in  Egypt, 
Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  who  had  lately  been  appointed  Consul- 
General  at  Cairo.  There  was  only  one  serious  obstacle  in 
the  way — the  attitude  of  the  Pashas  at  the  head  of  the 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    275 

Egyptian  Government.  The  infatuated  old  men  ware  con- 
vinced that  they  would  have  better  luck  next  time,  that 
another  army  and  another  Hicks  would  certainly  destroy 
the  Mahdi,  and  that,  even  if  the  Mahdi  were  again  vic- 
torious, yet  another  army  and  yet  another  Hicks  would 
no  doubt  be  forthcoming,  and  that  tJjey  would  do  the 
trick,  or,  failing  that . . .  but  they  refused  to  consider 
eventualities  any  further.  In  the  face  of  such  opposition, 
the  English  Government,  unwilling  as  they  were  to  inter- 
fere, saw  that  there  was  no  choice  open  to  them  but  to 
exercise  pressure.  They  therefore  instructed  Sir  Evelyn 
Baring,  in  the  event  of  the  Egyptian  Government  refusing 
to  withdraw  from  the  Sudan,  to  insist  upon  the  Khedive's 
appointing  other  Ministers  who  would  be  willing  to  do  so. 
Meanwhile,  not  only  the  Government,  but  the  public 
in  England  were  beginning  to  realise  the  alarming  nature 
of  the  Egyptian  situation.  It  was  some  time  before  the  de- 
tails of  the  Hicks  expedition  were  fully  known,  but  when 
they  were,  and  when  the  appalling  character  of  the  dis- 
aster was  understood,  a  thrill  of  horror  ran  through  the 
country.  The  newspapers  became  full  of  articles  on  the 
Sudan,  of  personal  descriptions  of  the  Mahdi,  of  agitated 
letters  from  Colonels  and  clergymen  demanding  venge- 
ance, and  of  serious  discussions  of  future  policy  In  Egyptr 
Then,  at  the  beginning  of  the  new  year,  alarming  messages 
began  to  arrive  from  Khartoum.  Colonel  Coetlogon,  who 
was  in  command  of  the  Egyptian  troops,  reported  a  men- 
acing concentration  of  the  enemy.  Day  by  day,  hour  by 
hour,  affairs  grew  worse.  The  Egyptians  were  obviously 
outnumbered;  they  could  not  maintain  themselves  in  the 
field;  Khartoum  was  In  danger;  at  any  moment.  Its  in- 
vestment might  be  complete.  And,  with  Khartoum  once 
cut  off  from  communication  with  Egypt,  what  might  not 


27^  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

happen?  Colonel  Coetlogon  began  to  calculate  how  long 
the  city  would  hold  out.  Perhaps  it  could  not  resist  the 
Mahdi  for  a  month,  perhaps  for  more  than  a  month;  but 
he  began  to  talk  of  the  necessity  of  a  speedy  retreat.  It 
was  clear  that  a  climax  was  approaching,  and  that  meas- 
ures must  be  taken  to  forestall  it  at  once.  Accordingly, 
Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  on  receipt  of  final  orders  from  Eng- 
land, presented  an  ultimatum  to  the  Egyptian  Govern- 
ment: the  Ministry  must  either  sanction  the  evacuation 
of  the  Sudan,  or  it  must  resign.  The  Ministry  was  obsti- 
nate, and,  on  January  7,  1884,  it  resigned,  to  be  replaced 
by  a  more  pliable  body  of  Pashas.  On  the  same  day, 
General  Gordon  arrived  at  Southampton. 

He  was  over  fifty,  and  he  was  still,  by  the  world's  meas- 
urements, an  unimportant  man.  In  spite  of  his  achieve- 
ments, in  spite  of  a  certain  celebrity — for  "Chinese  Gor- 
don" was  still  occasionally  spoken  of — he  was  unrecog- 
nised and  almost  unemployed.  He  had  spent  a  life-time 
in  the  dubious  services  of  foreign  Governments,  punc- 
tuated by  futile  drudgeries  at  home;  and  now,  after  a  long 
idleness,  he  had  been  sent  for — to  do  what? — to  look  after 
the  Congo  for  the  King  of  the  Belgians.  At  his  age,  even 
if  he  survived  the  v/ork  and  the  climate,  he  could  hardly 
look  forward  to  any  subsequent  appointment;  he  would 
return  from  the  Congo,  old  and  worn  out,  to  a  red-brick 
villa  and  extinction.  Such  were  General  Gordon's  pros- 
pects on  January  7,  1884.  By  January  i8th,  his  name  was 
on  every  tongue,  he  was  the  favourite  of  the  nation,  he 
had  been  declared  to  be  the  one  man  living  capable  of 
coping  with  the  perils  of  the  hour,  he  had  been  chosen, 
with  unanimous  approval,  to  perform  a  great  task,  and 
he  had  left  England  on  a  mission  which  was  to  bring 
him  not  only  a  boundless  popularity  but  an  immortal 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    XJJ 

fame.  The  circumstances  which  led  to  a  change  so  sudden 
and  so  remarkable  are  less  easily  explained  than  might 
have  been  wished.  An  ambiguity  hangs  over  them — an 
ambiguity  which  the  discretion  of  eminent  persons  has 
certainly  not  diminished.  But  some  of  the  facts  are  clear 
enough. 

The  decision  to  withdraw  from  the  Sudan  had  no  sooner 
been  taken  than  it  had  become  evident  that  the  operation 
would  be  a  difficult  and  hazardous  one,  and  that  it  would 
be  necessary  to  send  to  Khartoum  an  emissary  armed  with 
special  powers  and  possessed  of  special  ability,  to  carry  it 
out.  Towards  the  end  of  November,  somebody  at  the  War 
Office — it  is  not  clear  who — had  suggested  that  this 
emissary  should  be  General  Gordon.  Lord  Granville,  the 
Foreign  Secretary,  had  thereupon  telegraphed  to  Sir 
Evelyn  Baring  asking  whether,  in  his  opinion,  the  pres- 
ence of  General  Gordon  would  be  useful  in  Egypt;  Sir 
Evelyn  Baring  had  replied  that  the  Egyptian  Government 
were  averse  to  this  proposal,  and  the  matter  had  dropped. 
There  was  no  further  reference  to  Gordon  in  the  official 
dispatches  until  after  his  return  to  England.  Nor,  before 
that  date,  was  any  allusion  made  to  him,  as  a  possible 
unraveller  of  the  Sudan  difficulty,  in  the  Press.  In  all  the 
discussions  which  followed  the  news  of  the  Hicks  disaster, 
his  name  is  only  to  be  found  in  occasional  and  incidental 
references  to  his  work  in  the  Sudan.  The  Vail  Mall  Gazette, 
which,  more  than  any  other  newspaper,  interested  itself  in 
Egyptian  affairs,  alluded  to  Gordon  once  or  twice  as  a 
geographical  expert;  but,  in  an  enumeration  of  the  leading 
authorities  on  the  Sudan,  left  him  out  of  account  alto- 
gether. Yet  it  was  from  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  that  the 
impulsion  which  projected  him  into  a  blaze  of  publicity 
finally  came.  Mr.  Stead,  its  enterprising  editor,  went  down 


278  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

to  Southampton  the  day  after  Gordon's  arrival  there,  and 
obtained  an  interview.  Now  when  he  was  in  the  mood — 
after  a  Httle  b.  and  s.,  especially — no  one  was  more  capable 
than  Gordon,  with  his  facile  speech  and  his  free-and-easy 
manners,  of  furnishing  good  copy  for  a  journalist;  and 
Mr.  Stead  made  the  most  of  his  opportunity.  The  inter- 
view, copious  and  pointed,  was  published  next  day  in  the 
most  prominent  part  of  the  paper,  together  with  a  leading 
article,  demanding  that  the  General  should  be  immedi- 
ately dispatched  to  Khartoum  with  the  widest  powers. 
The  rest  of  the  Press,  both  in  London  and  in  the  provinces, 
at  once  took  up  the  cry.  General  Gordon  was  a  capable 
and  energetic  officer,  he  was  a  noble  and  God-fearing  man, 
he  was  a  national  asset,  he  was  a  statesman  in  the  highest 
sense  of  the  word;  the  occasion  was  pressing  and  perilous; 
General  Gordon  had  been  for  years  Governor-General  of 
the  Sudan;  General  Gordon  alone  had  the  knowledge,  the 
courage,  the  virtue,  which  would  save  the  situation;  Gen- 
eral Gordon  must  go  to  Khartoum.  So,  for  a  week,  the 
papers  sang  in  chorus.  But  already  those  in  high  places  had 
taken  a  step.  Mr.  Stead's  interview  appeared  on  the  after- 
noon of  January  9th,  and  on  the  morning  of  January 
loth,  Lord  Granville  telegraphed  to  Sir  Evelyn  Baring 
proposing,  for  a  second  time,  that  Gordon's  services  should 
be  utilised  in  Egypt.  But  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  for  the  sec- 
ond time,  rejected  the  proposal. 

While  these  messages  were  flashing  to  and  fro,  Gordon 
himself  was  paying  a  visit  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barnes  at  the 
Vicarage  of  Heavitree,  near  Exeter.  The  conversation  ran 
chiefly  on  Biblical  and  spiritual  matters — on  the  light 
thrown  by  the  Old  Testament  upon  the  geography  of 
Palestine,  and  on  the  relations  between  man  and  his 
Maker;  but  there  were  moments  when  topics  of  a  more 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    ^^J<) 

worldly  interest  arose.  It  happened  that  Sir  Samuel  Baker, 
Gordon's  predecessor  in  Equatoria,  Uved  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. A  meeting  was  arranged,  and  the  two  ex-Governors, 
with  Mr.  Barnes  in  attendance,  went  for  a  drive  together. 
In  the  carriage,  Sir  Samuel  Baker,  taking  up  the  tale  of 
the  VaW  Mall  Gazette,  dilated  upon  the  necessity  of  his 
friend's  returning  to  the  Sudan  as  Governor-General. 
Gordon  was  silent;  but  Mr.  Barnes  noticed  that  his  blue 
eyes  flashed,  while  an  eager  expression  passed  over  his 
face.  Late  that  night,  after  the  Vicar  had  retired  to  bed, 
he  was  surprised  by  the  door  suddenly  opening,  and  by 
the  appearance  of  his  guest  swiftly  tripping  into  the  room. 
"You  saw  me  to-day?"  the  low  voice  abruptly  questioned. 
— "You  mean  in  the  carriage?"  replied  the  startled  Mr. 
Barnes, — "Yes,"  came  the  reply;  "you  saw  me — that  was 
myself — the  self  I  want  to  get  rid  of."  There  was  a  sliding 
movement,  the  door  swung  to,  and  the  Vicar  found  him- 
self alone  again. 

It  was  clear  that  a  disturbing  influence  had  found 
its  way  into  Gordon's  mind.  His  thoughts,  wandering 
through  Africa,  flitted  to  the  Sudan;  they  did  not  linger 
at  the  Congo.  During  the  same  visit,  he  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  calling  upon  Dr.  Temple,  the  Bishop  of  Exeter, 
and  asking  him,  merely  as  a  hypothetical  question, 
whether,  in  his  opinion,  Sudanese  converts  to  Christianity 
might  be  permitted  to  keep  three  wives.  His  Lordship 
answered  that  this  would  be  uncanonical. 

A  few  days  later,  it  appeared  that  the  conversation  in 
the  carriage  at  Heavitree  had  borne  fruit.  Gordon  wrote 
a  letter  to  Sir  Samuel  Baker,  further  elaborating  the 
opinions  on  the  Sudan  which  he  had  already  expressed 
in  his  interview  with  Mr.  Stead;  the  letter  was  clearly 
intended  for  publication,  and  published  it  was,  in  the 


28o  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Times  of  January  14th.  On  the  same  day,  Gordon's  name 
began  once  more  to  buzz  along  the  wires  in  secret  ques- 
tions and  answers  to  and  from  the  highest  quarters. 

"Might  it  not  be  advisable,"  telegraphed  Lord  Gran- 
ville to  Mr.  Gladstone,  "to  put  a  little  pressure  on  Baring, 
to  induce  him  to  accept  the  assistance  of  General  Gordon?" 
Mr.  Gladstone  replied,  also  by  a  telegram,  in  the  affirma- 
tive; and  on  the  15  th  Lord  Wolseley  telegraphed  to  Gor- 
don begging  him  to  come  to  London  immediately.  Lord 
"Wolseley,  who  was  one  of  Gordon's  oldest  friends,  was  at 
that  time  Adjutant-General  of  the  Forces;  there  was  a 
long  interview;  and,  though  the  details  of  the  conversa- 
tion have  never  transpired,  it  is  known  that,  in  the  course 
of  it.  Lord  Wolseley  asked  Gordon  if  he  would  be  willing 
to  go  to  the  Sudan,  to  which  Gordon  replied  that  there 
was  only  one  objection — his  prior  engagement  to  the  King 
of  the  Belgians.  Before  nightfall.  Lord  Granville  by  pri- 
vate telegram,  had  "put  a  little  pressure  on  Baring."  "He 
had,"  he  said,  "heard  indirectly  that  Gordon  was  ready 
to  go  at  once  to  the  Sudan  on  the  following  rather  vague 
terms.  His  mission  to  be  to  report  to  Her  Majesty's  Gov- 
ernment on  the  military  situation,  and  to  return  without 
any  further  engagement.  He  would  be  under  you  for  in- 
structions and  will  send  letters  through  you  under  flying 
seal. . . .  He  might  be  of  use,"  Lord  Granville  added,  "in 
informing  you  and  us  of  the  situation.  It  would  be  popu- 
lar at  home,  but  there  may  be  countervailing  objections. 
Tell  me,"  such  was  Lord  Granville's  concluding  injunc- 
tion, "your  real  opinion."  It  was  the  third  time  of  asking, 
and  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  resisted  no  longer. 

Gordon  [he  telegraphed  on  the  i6th]  would  be  the  best  man 
if  he  will  pledge  himself  to  carry  out  the  policy  of  withdrawing 
from  the  Sudan  as  quickly  as  is  possible  consistently  with  saving 


THE     END     OF    GENERAL     GORDON  281 

life.  He  must  also  understand  that  he  must  take  his  instructions 
from  the  British  representative  in  Egypt.  ...  I  would  rather 
have  him  than  any  one  else,  provided  there  is  a  perfectly  clear 
understanding  with  him  as  to  what  his  position  is  to  be  and 
what  hne  of  policy  he  is  to  carry  out.  Otherwise,  not.  . . .  "Who- 
ever goes  should  be  distinctly  warned  that  he  will  undertake 
a  service  of  great  difiSculty  and  danger. 

In  the  meantime,  Gordon  with  the  Sudan  upon  his  lips, 
with  the  Sudan  in  his  imagination,  had  hurried  to  Brus- 
sels, to  obtain  from  the  King  of  the  Belgians  a  reluctant 
consent  to  the  postponement  of  his  Congo  mission.  On  the 
17th  he  was  recalled  to  London  by  a  telegram  from  Lord 
Wolseley.  On  the  i8th  the  final  decision  was  made.  "At 
noon,"  Gordon  told  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barnes,  "Wolseley  came 
to  me  and  took  me  to  the  Ministers.  He  went  in  and  talked 
to  the  Ministers,  and  came  back  and  said:  'Her  Majesty's 
Government  want  you  to  undertake  this.  Government 
are  determined  to  evacuate  the  Sudan,  for  they  will  not 
guarantee  future  government.  Will  you  go  and  do  it?* 
I  said:  'Yes.'  He  said:  'Go  in.'  I  went  in  and  saw  them. 
They  said:  'Did  Wolseley  tell  you  your  orders?'  I  said: 
'You  will  not  guarantee  future  government  of  the  Sudan, 
and  you  wish  me  to  go  up  and  evacuate  now.'  They  said: 
'Yes,'  and  it  was  all  over." 

Such  was  the  sequence  of  events  which  ended  in  Gen- 
eral Gordon's  last  appointment.  The  precise  motives  of 
those  responsible  for  these  transactions  are  less  easy  to 
discern.  It  is  difficult  to  understand  what  the  reasons 
could  have  been  which  induced  the  Government,  not  only 
to  override  the  hesitations  of  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  but  to 
overlook  the  grave  and  obvious  dangers  involved  in  send- 
ing such  a  man  as  Gordon  to  the  Sudan.  The  whole  history 
of  his  life,  the  whole  bent  of  his  character,  seemed  to  dis- 


282  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

qualify  him  for  the  task  for  which  he  had  been  chosen. 
He  was  before  all  things  a  fighter,  an  enthusiast,  a  bold 
adventurer;  and  he  was  now  to  be  entrusted  with  the 
conduct  of  an  inglorious  retreat.  He  was  alien  to  the 
subtleties  of  civilised  statesmanship,  he  was  unamenable 
to  oflScial  control,  he  was  incapable  of  the  skilful  manage- 
ment of  delicate  situations;  and  he  was  now  to  be  placed 
in  a  position  of  great  complexity,  requiring  at  once  a  cool 
judgment,  a  clear  perception  of  fact,  and  a  fixed  determi- 
nation to  carry  out  a  line  of  policy  laid  down  from  above. 
He  had,  it  is  true,  been  Governor-General  of  the  Sudan; 
but  he  was  now  to  return  to  the  scene  of  his  greatness 
as  the  emissary  of  a  defeated  and  humbled  power;  he  was 
to  be  a  fugitive  where  he  had  once  been  a  ruler;  the  very 
success  of  his  mission  was  to  consist  in  establishing  the 
triumph  of  those  forces  which  he  had  spent  years  in  tram- 
phng  under  foot.  All  this  should  have  been  clear  to  those 
in  authority,  after  a  very  little  reflection.  It  was  clear 
enough  to  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  though,  with  characteristic 
reticence,  he  had  abstained  from  giving  expression  to  his 
thoughts.  But,  even  if  a  general  acquaintance  with  Gor- 
don's life  and  character  were  not  sufficient  to  lead  to  these 
conclusions,  he  himself  had  taken  care  to  put  their  validity 
beyond  reasonable  doubt.  Both  in  his  interview  with  Mr. 
Stead  and  in  his  letter  to  Sir  Samuel  Baker,  he  had  indi- 
cated unmistakably  his  own  attitude  towards  the  Sudan 
situation.  The  policy  which  he  advocated,  the  state  of 
feeling  in  which  he  showed  himself  to  be,  were  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  the  declared  intentions  of  the  Govern- 
ment. He  was  by  no  means  in  favour  of  withdrawing 
from  the  Sudan:  he  was  in  favour,  as  might  have  been 
supposed,  of  vigorous  military  action.  It  might  be  neces- 
sary to  abandon,  for  the  time  being,  the  more  remote 


THE  ENL  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    283 

garrisons  in  Darfour  and  Equatoria;  but  Khartoum  must 
be  held  at  all  costs  To  allow  the  Mahdi  to  enter  Khartoum 
would  not  merelv  mean  the  return  of  the  whole  of  the 
Sudan  to  barbarism,  it  would  be  a  menace  to  the  safety 
of  Egypt  herself.  To  attempt  to  protect  Egypt  against  the 
Mahdi  by  fortifying  her  southern  frontier  was  prepos- 
terous. "You  might  as  well  fortify  against  a  fever." 
Arabia,  Syria,  the  whole  Mohammedan  world,  would  be 
shaken  by  the  Mahdi's  advance.  "In  self-defence,"  Gor- 
don declared  to  Mr.  Stead,  "the  policy  of  evacuation  can- 
not possibly  be  justified."  The  true  policy  was  obvious.  A 
strong  man — Sir  Samuel  Baker,  perhaps — must  be  sent  to 
Khartoum,  with  a  large  contingent  of  Indian  and  Turkish 
troops  and  with  two  millions  of  money.  He  would  very 
soon  overpower  the  Mahdi,  whose  forces  would  "fall  to 
pieces  themselves."  For  in  Gordon's  opinion  it  was  "an 
entire  mistake  to  regard  the  Mahdi  as  in  any  sense  a 
religious  leader";  he  would  collapse  as  soon  as  he  was  face 
to  face  with  an  English  general.  Then  the  distant  regions 
of  Darfour  and  Equatoria  could  once  more  be  occupied; 
their  original  Sultans  could  be  reinstated;  the  whole  coun- 
try would  be  placed  under  civilised  rule;  and  the  slave- 
trade  would  be  finally  abolished.  These  were  the  views 
which  Gordon  publicly  expressed  on  January  9th  and  on 
January  14th;  and  it  certainly  seems  strange  that  on 
January  loth  and  on  January  14th,  Lord  Granville  should 
have  proposed,  without  a  word  of  consultation  with  Gor- 
don himsejf,  to  send  him  on  a  mission  which  involved,  not 
the  reconquest,  but  the  abandonment,  of  the  Sudan.  Gor- 
don, indeed,  when  he  was  actually  approached  by  Lord 
Wolseley,  had  apparently  agreed  to  become  the  agent  of 
a  policy  whick  was  exactly  the  reverse  of  his  own.  Nc 
doubt,  too,  it  is  possible  for  a  subordinate  to  suppress  his 


284  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

private  convictions  and  to  carry  out  loyally,  in  spite  of 
them,  the  orders  of  his  superiors.  But  how  rare  are  the 
qualities  of  self-control  and  wisdom  which  such  a  subordi- 
nate must  possess!  And  how  little  reason  there  was  to  think 
that  General  Gordon  possessed  them! 

In  fact,  the  conduct  of  the  Government  wears  so  singu- 
lar an  appearance  that  it  has  seemed  necessary  to  account 
for  it  by  some  ulterior  explanation.  It  has  often  been  as- 
serted that  the  true  cause  of  Gordon's  appointment  was 
the  clamour  in  the  Press.  It  is  said — among  others,  by 
Sir  Evelyn  Baring  himself,  who  has  given  something  like 
an  official  sanction  to  this  view  of  the  case — that  the 
Government  could  not  resist  the  pressure  of  the  news- 
papers and  the  feeling  in  the  country  which  it  indicated; 
that  Ministers,  carried  off  their  feet  by  a  wave  of  "Gordon 
cultus,"  were  obliged  to  give  way  to  the  inevitable.  But 
this  suggestion  is  hardly  supported  by  an  examination  of 
the  facts.  Already,  early  in  December,  and  many  weeks 
before  Gordon's  name  had  begun  to  figure  in  the  news- 
papers, Lord  Granville  had  made  his  first  effort  to  induce 
Sir  Evelyn  Baring  to  accept  Gordon's  services.  The  first 
newspaper  demand  for  a  Gordon  mission  appeared  in  the 
Pall  Mall  Gazette  on  the  afternoon  of  January  9th;  and 
the  very  next  morning  Lord  Granville  was  making  his 
second  telegraphic  attack  upon  Sir  Evelyn  Baring.  The 
feeling  in  the  Press  did  not  become  general  until  the  nth, 
and  on  the  14th  Lord  Granville,  in  his  telegram  to  Mr. 
Gladstone,  for  the  third  time  proposed  the  appointment 
of  Gordon.  Clearly,  on  the  part  of  Lord  Granville  at  any 
rate,  there  was  no  extreme  desire  to  resist  the  wishes  of 
the  Press.  Nor  was  the  Government  as  a  whole  by  any 
means  incapable  of  ignoring  public  opinion:  a  few  months 
were  to  show  that,  plainly  enough.  It  is  difficult  to  avoid 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    28) 

the  conclusion  that  if  Ministers  had  been  opposed  to  the 
appointment  of  Gordon,  he  would  never  have  been  ap- 
pointed. As  it  was,  the  newspapers  were  in  fact  forestalled 
rather  than  followed,  by  the  Government. 

How,  then,  are  we  to  explain  the  Government's  action? 
Are  we  to  suppose  that  Its  members,  like  the  members  of 
the  public  at  large,  were  themselves  carried  away  by  a 
sudden  enthusiasm,  a  sudden  conviction  that  they  had 
found  their  saviour,  that  General  Gordon  was  the  man — 
they  did  not  quite  know  why,  but  that  was  of  no  conse- 
quence— the  one  man  to  get  them  out  of  the  whole  Sudan 
difficulty — they  did  not  quite  know  how,  but  that  was  of 
no  consequence  either — if  only  he  were  sent  to  Khartoum? 
Doubtless  even  Cabinet  Ministers  are  liable  to  such  im- 
pulses; doubtless  it  is  possible  that  the  Cabinet  of  that 
day  allowed  Itself  to  drift,  out  of  mere  lack  of  con- 
sideration, and  judgment,  and  foresight,  along  the  rapid 
stream  of  popular  feeling  towards  the  inevitable  cataract. 
That  may  be  so;  yet  there  are  indications  that  a  more 
definite  influence  was  at  work.  There  was  a  section  of 
the  Government  which  had  never  become  quite  reconciled 
to  the  policy  of  withdrawing  from  the  Sudan.  To  this  sec- 
tion— we  may  call  it  the  imperialist  section — which  was 
led.  Inside  the  Cabinet,  by  Lord  Hartlngton,  and  outside 
by  Lord  Wolseley,  the  policy  which  really  recommended 
itself  was  the  very  policy  which  had  been  outlined  by 
General  Gordon  in  his  interview  with  Mr.  Stead  and  his 
letter  to  Sir  Samuel  Baker.  They  saw  that  It  might  be 
necessary  to  abandon  some  of  the  outlying  parts  of  the 
Sudan  to  the  Mahdi;  but  the  prospect  of  leaving  the 
whole  province  In  his  hands  was  highly  distasteful  to 
them;  above  all,  they  dreaded  the  loss  of  Khartoum.  Now, 
supposing  that  General  Gordon  in  response  to  a  popular 


286  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

agitation  in  the  Press,  were  sent  to  Khartoum,  what  would 
follow?  Was  it  not  at  least  possible  that,  once  there,  with 
his  views  and  his  character,  he  would,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  refrain  from  carrying  out  a  policy  of  pacific  re- 
treat? Was  it  not  possible  that  in  that  case  he  might  so 
involve  the  English  Government  that  it  would  find  itself 
obhged,  almost  imperceptibly  perhaps,  to  substitute  for 
its  policy  of  withdrawal  a  policy  of  advance?  Was  it  not 
possible  that  General  Gordon  might  get  into  diflficulties, 
that  he  might  be  surrounded  and  cut  off  from  Egypt?  If 
that  were  to  happen,  how  could  the  English  Government 
avoid  the  necessity  of  sending  an  expedition  to  rescue 
him?  And,  if  an  English  expedition  went  to  the  Sudan, 
was  it  conceivable  that  it  would  leave  the  Mahdi  as  it 
found  him?  In  short,  would  not  the  dispatch  of  General 
Gordon  to  Khartoum  involve,  almost  inevitably,  the  con- 
quest of  the  Sudan  by  British  troops,  followed  by  a  British 
occupation?  And,  behind  all  these  questions,  a  still  larger 
question  loomed.  The  position  of  the  English  in  Egypt 
itself  was  still  ambiguous;  the  future  was  obscure;  how 
long,  in  reality,  would  an  English  army  remain  in  Egypt? 
Was  not  one  thing,  at  least,  obvious — that  if  the  English 
were  to  conquer  and  occupy  the  Sudan,  their  evacuation 
of  Egypt  would  become  impossible? 

With  our  present  information,  it  would  be  rash  to 
affirm  that  all,  or  any,  of  these  considerations  were  present 
to  the  minds  of  the  imperialist  section  of  the  Government. 
Yet  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  a  man  such  as  Lord 
Wolseley,  for  instance,  with  his  knowledge  of  affairs  and 
his  knowledge  of  Gordon,  could  have  altogether  over- 
looked them.  Lord  Hartington,  indeed,  may  well  have 
failed  to  realise  at  once  the  implications  of  General  Gor- 
don's appointment — fof  it  took  Lord  Hartington  some 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    287 

time  to  realise  the  implications  of  anything;  but  Lord 
Hartington  was  very  far  from  being  a  fool;  and  we  may 
well  suppose  that  he  instinctively,  perhaps  subconsciously, 
apprehended  the  elements  of  a  situation  which  he  never 
formulated  to  hirnself.  However  that  may  be,  certain 
circumstances  are  significant.  It  is  significant  that  the  go- 
between  who  acted  as  the  Government's  agent  in  its  nego- 
tiations with  Gordon  was  an  imperialist — Lord  Wolseley. 
It  is  significant  that  the  "Ministers"  whom  Gordon  finally 
interviewed,  and  who  actually  determined  his  appoint- 
ment, were  by  no  means  the  whole  of  the  Cabinet,  but  a 
small  section  of  it,  presided  over  by  Lord  Hartington.  It 
is  significant,  too,  that  Gordon's  mission  was  represented 
both  to  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  who  was  opposed  to  his  appoint- 
ment, and  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  was  opposed  to  an  active 
policy  in  the  Sudan,  as  a  mission  merely  "to  report";  while, 
no  sooner  was  the  mission  actually  decided  upon,  than  it 
began  to  assume  a  very  different  complexion.  In  his  final 
interview  with  the  "Ministers,"  Gordon,  we  know 
(though  he  said  nothing  about  it  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barnes) , 
threw  out  the  suggestion  that  it  might  be  as  well  to  make 
him  the  Governor-General  of  the  Sudan.  The  suggestion, 
for  the  moment,  was  not  taken  up;  but  it  is  obvious  that 
a  man  does  not  propose  to  become  a  Governor-General 
in  order  to  make  a  report. 

We  are  in  the  region  of  speculations;  one  other  presents 
itself.  Was  the  movement  in  the  Press  during  that  second 
week  of  January  a  genuine  movement,  expressing  a  spon- 
taneous wave  of  popular  feeling.^  Or  was  it  a  cause  of 
that  feeling,  rather  than  an  effect?  The  engineering  of 
a  newspaper  agitation  may  not  have  been  an  impossibility 
— even  so  long  ago  as  1 884.  One  would  like  to  know  more 


288  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

than  one  is  ever  likely  to  know  of  the  relations  of  the  im- 
perialist section  of  the  Government  with  Mr.  Stead. 

But  it  is  time  to  return  to  the  solidity  of  fact.  Within 
a  few  hours  of  his  interview  with  the  Ministers,  Gordon 
had  left  England  for  ever.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
there  was  a  little  gathering  of  elderly  gentlemen  at  Vic- 
toria Station.  Gordon,  accompanied  by  Colonel  Stewart, 
who  was  to  act  as  his  second-in-command,  tripped  on  to 
the  platform.  Lord  Granville  bought  the  necessary  tickets; 
the  Duke  of  Cambridge  opened  the  railway-carriage  door, 
the  General  jumped  iito  the  train;  and  then  Lord  Wolse- 
ley  appeared,  carrying  a  leather  bag,  in  which  were  two 
hundred  pounds  in  gold  collected  from  friends  at  the 
last  moment,  for  the  contingencies  of  the  journey.  The 
bag  was  handed  through  the  window.  The  train  started. 
As  it  did  so,  Gordon  leant  out,  and  addressed  a  last  whis- 
pered question  to  Lord  Wolseley.  Yes  it  had  been  done, 
Lord  Wolseley  had  seen  to  it  himself;  next  morning,  every 
member  of  the  Cabinet  would  receive  a  copy  of  Dr.  Samuel 
Clarke's  Scripture  Promises.  That  was  all.  The  train  rolled 
out  of  the  station. 

Before  the  travellers  reached  Cairo,  steps  had  been  taken 
which  finally  put  an  end  to  the  theory — if  it  had  ever 
been  seriously  held — that  the  purpose  of  the  mission  was 
simply  the  making  of  a  report.  On  the  very  day  of  Gor- 
don's departure,  Lord  Granville  telegraphed  to  Sir  Evelyn 
Baring  as  follows:  "Gordon  suggests  that  it  may  be  an- 
nounced in  Egypt  that  he  is  on  his  way  to  Khartoum  to 
arrange  for  the  future  of  settlement  of  the  Sudan  for 
the  best  advantage  of  the  people."  Nothing  was  said  of 
reporting.  A  few  days  later,  Gordon  himself  telegraphed 
to  Lord  Granville  suggesting  that  he  should  be  made 
Governor-General  of  the  Sudan,  in  order  to  "accomplish 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    289 

the  evacuation,"  and  to  "restore  to  the  various  Sultans 
of  the  Sudan  their  independence."  Lord  Granville  at  once 
authorized  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  to  issue,  if  he  thought  fit, 
a  proclamation  to  this  effect  in  the  name  of  the  Khedive. 
Thus  the  mission  "to  report"  had  already  swollen  into  a 
Governor-Generalship,  with  the  object,  not  merely  of 
effecting  the  evacuation  of  the  Sudan,  but  also  of  setting 
up  "various  Sultans"  to  take  the  place  of  the  Egyptian 
Government. 

In  Cairo,  in  spite  of  the  hostilities  of  the  past,  Gordon 
was  received  with  every  politeness.  He  was  at  once  pro- 
claimed Governor-General  of  the  Sudan,  with  the  widest 
powers.  He  was  on  the  point  of  starting  off  again  on  his 
journey  southwards,  when  a  singular  and  important  in- 
cident occurred.  Zobeir,  the  rebel  chieftain  of  Darfour, 
against  whose  forces  Gordon  had  struggled  for  years,  and 
whose  son,  Suleiman,  had  been  captured  and  executed  by 
Gessi,  Gordon's  lieutenant,  was  still  detained  at  Cairo. 
It  so  fell  out  that  he  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  one  of  the  Minis- 
ters at  the  same  time  as  the  new  Governor-General.  The 
two  men  met  face  to  face,  and,  as  he  looked  into  the  savage 
countenance  of  his  old  enemy,  an  extraordinary  shock  of 
inspiration  ran  through  Gordon's  brain.  He  was  seized, 
as  he  explained  in  a  State  paper,  which  he  drew  up  im- 
mediately after  the  meeting,  with  a  "mystic  feeling"  that 
he  could  trust  Zobeir.  It  was  true  that  Zobeir  was  "the 
greatest  slave-hunter  who  ever  existed";  it  was  true  that 
he  had  a  personal  hatred  of  Gordon,  owing  to  the  execution 
of  Suleiman —  "and  one  cannot  wonder  at  it,  if  one  is  a 
father";  it  was  true  that,  only  a  few  days  previously,  on 
his  way  to  Egypt,  Gordon  himself  had  been  so  convinced 
of  the  dangerous  character  of  Zobeir  that  he  had  recom- 
mended by  telegram  his  removal  to  Cyprus.  But  such 


290  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

considerations  were  utterly  obliterated  by  that  one  mo- 
ment of  electric  impact,  of  personal  vision;  henceforward 
there  was  a  rooted  conviction  in  Gordon's  mind  that 
Zobeir  was  to  be  trusted,  that  Zobeir  must  join  him  at 
Khartoum,  that  Zobeir's  presence  would  paralyse  the 
Mahdi,  that  Zobeir  must  succeed  him  in  the  government 
of  the  country  after  the  evacuation.  Did  not  Sir  Evelyn 
Baring,  too,  have  the  mystic  feeling?  Sir  Evelyn  Baring 
confessed  that  he  had  not.  He  distrusted  mystic  feelings. 
Zobeir,  no  doubt,  might  possibly  be  useful;  but  before 
deciding  upon  so  important  a  matter  it  was  necessary  to 
reflect  and  to  consult. 

In  the  meantime,  failing  Zobeir,  something  might  per- 
haps be  done  with  the  Emir  Abdul-Shakour,  the  heir  of 
the  Darfour  Sultans.  The  Emir,  who  had  been  living  in 
domestic  retirement  in  Cairo,  was  with  some  difficulty  dis- 
covered, given  £2000,  an  embroidered  uniform,  together 
with  the  largest  decoration  that  could  be  found,  and  in- 
formed that  he  was  to  start  at  once  with  General  Gordon 
for  the  Sudan,  where  it  would  be  his  duty  to  occupy  the 
province  of  Darfour,  after  driving  out  the  forces  of  the 
Mahdi.  The  poor  man  begged  for  a  little  delay;  but  no 
delay  could  be  granted.  He  hurried  to  the  railway  station 
in  his  frock-coat  and  fez,  and  rather  the  worse  for  liquor. 
Several  extra  carriages  for  his  twenty-three  wives  and  a 
large  quantity  of  luggage  had  then  to  be  hitched  on  to  the 
Governor-General's  train;  and  at  the  last  moment  some 
commotion  was  caused  by  the  unaccountable  disappear- 
ance of  his  embroidered  uniform.  It  was  found,  but  his 
troubles  were  not  over.  On  the  steamer.  General  Gordon 
was  very  rude  to  him,  and  he  drowned  his  chagrin  in  hot 
rum  and  water.  At  Assuan  he  disembarked,  declaring  that 
he  would  go  no  further.  Eventually,  however,  he  got  as 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    29I 

far  as  Dongola,  whence,  after  a  stay  of  a  few  months,  he 
returned  with  his  family  to  Cairo. 

In  spite  of  this  little  contretemps,  Gordon  was  in  the 
highest  spirits.  At  last  his  capacities  had  been  recognised 
by  his  countrymen;  at  last  he  had  been  entrusted  with 
a  task  great  enough  to  satisfy  even  his  desires.  He  was  al- 
ready famous;  he  would  soon  be  glorious.  Looking  ouv. 
once  more  over  the  familiar  desert,  he  felt  the  searchings  of 
his  conscience  stilled  by  the  manifest  certainty  that  it  was 
for  this  that  Providence  had  been  reserving  him  through 
all  these  years  of  labour  and  of  sorrow — for  this!  "What 
was  the  Mahdi  to  stand  up  against  him?  A  thojsand 
schemes,  a  thousand  possibilities  sprang  to  life  in  his 
pullulating  brain.  A  new  intoxication  carried  hirr.  away. 
"II  faut  etre  toujours  ivre.  Tout  est  la:  c'est  I'unique  ques- 
tion." Little  though  he  knew  it,  Gordon  was  a  disciple  of 
Baudelaire.  "Pour  ne  pas  sentir  I'horrible  f ardeau  du  Temps 
qui  brise  vos  epaules  et  vous  penche  vers  terre,  il  faut  vous 
enivrer  sans  treve."  Yes,  but  how  feeble  were  those  gross 
resources  of  the  miserable  Abdul-Shakour!  Rum?  Brandy? 
Oh,  he  knew  all  about  them;  they  were  nothing.  He  tossed 
off  a  glass.  They  were  nothing  at  all.  1  he  true  drunken- 
ness lay  elsewhere.  He  seized  paper  a.id  pencil,  and  dashed 
down  a  telegram  to  Sir  Evelyn  B(^ring.  Another  thought 
struck  him  and  another  telegram  followed.  And  an- 
other, and  yet  another.  He  had  made  up  his  mind;  he 
would  visit  the  Mahdi  in  peison,  and  alone.  He  might  do 
that;  or  he  might  retire  to  the  equator.  He  would  decidedly 
retire  to  the  equator,  and  hand  over  the  Bahr-el-Ghazal 
province  to  the  King  of  the  Belgians.  A  whole  flock  of 
telegrams  flew  to  Cairo  from  every  stopping-place.  Sir 
Evelyn  Baring  was  patient  and  discreet;  he  could  be 
trusted  with  such  confidences;  but  unfortunately  Gor- 


292  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

don's  Strange  exhilaration  found  other  outlets.  At  Berbers 
in  the  course  of  a  speech  to  the  assembled  chiefs,  he  re- 
vealed the  intention  of  the  Egyptian  Government  to 
withdraw  from  the  Sudan.  The  news  was  everywhere  in 
a  moment,  and  the  results  were  disastrous.  The  tribes- 
men, whom  fear  and  interest  had  still  kept  loyal,  per- 
ceived that  they  need  look  no  more  for  help  or  punish- 
ment from  Egypt,  and  began  to  turn  their  eyes  towards 
the  rising  sun. 

Nevertheless,  for  the  moment  the  prospect  wore  a 
favourable  appearance.  The  Governor-General  was  wel- 
comed at  every  stage  of  his  jouney,  and  on  February  1 8th 
he  made  a  triumphal  entry  into  Khartoum.  The  feeble 
garrison,  the  panic-stricken  inhabitants,  hailed  him  as 
a  deliverer.  Surely  they  need  fear  no  more,  now  that  the 
great  English  Pasha  had  come  among  them.  His  first  acts 
seemed  to  show  that  a  new  and  happy  era  had  begun.  Taxes 
were  remitted,  the  bonds  of  the  usurers  were  destroyed, 
the  victims  of  Egyptian  injustice  were  set  free  from  the 
prisons;  the  immemorial  instruments  of  torture — the 
stocks  and  the  whips  and  the  branding-irons — were 
broken  to  pieces  in  the  public  square.  A  bolder  measure 
had  been  already  taken.  A  proclamation  had  been  issued 
sanctioning  slavery  in  the  Sudan.  Gordon,  arguing  that  he 
was  powerless  to  do  away  with  the  odious  institution, 
which,  as  soon  as  the  withdrawal  was  carried  out,  would  in- 
evitably become  universal,  had  decided  to  reap  what  bene- 
fit he  could  from  the  public  abandonment  of  an  unpopu- 
lar policy.  At  Khartoum  the  announcement  was  received 
with  enthusiasm,  but  it  caused  considerable  perturbation 
in  England.  The  Christian  hero,  who  had  spent  so  many 
years  of  his  life  in  suppressing  slavery,  was  now  suddenly 
found  to  be  using  his  high  powers  to  set  it  up  again.  The 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    293 

Anti-Slavery  Society  made  a  menacing  movement,  but 
the  Government  showed  a  bold  front,  and  the  popular 
belief  In  Gordon's  Infallibility  carried  the  day. 

He  himself  was  still  radiant.  Nor,  amid  the  jubilation 
and  the  devotion  which  surrounded  him,  did  he  forget 
higher  things.  In  all  this  turmoil,  he  told  his  sister,  he  was 
"supported."  He  gave  injunctions  that  his  Egyptian 
troops  should  have  regular  morning  and  evening  prayers; 
"they  worship  one  God,"  he  said,  "Jehovah."  And  he 
ordered  an  Arabic  text,  "God  rules  the  hearts  of  all  men," 
to  be  put  up  over  the  chair  of  state  In  his  audience  cham- 
ber. As  the  days  went  by,  he  began  to  feel  at  home  again 
in  the  huge  palace  which  he  knew  so  well.  The  glare  and 
the  heat  of  that  southern  atmosphere,  the  movement  of 
the  crowded  city,  the  dark-faced  populace,  the  soldiers 
and  the  suppliants,  the  reawakened  consciousness  of  power, 
the  glamour  and  the  mystery  of  the  whole  strange  scene — 
these  things  seized  upon  him,  engulfed  him,  and  worked 
a  new  transformation  In  his  Intoxicated  heart.  England, 
with  its  complications  and  its  policies,  became  an  empty 
vision  to  him;  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  with  his  cautions  and 
sagacities,  hardly  more  than  a  tiresome  name.  He  was  Gor- 
don Pasha,  he  was  the  Governor-General,  he  was  the  ruler 
of  the  Sudan.  He  was  among  his  people — his  own  people, 
and  it  was  to  them  only  that  he  was  responsible — to  them, 
and  to  God.  "Was  he  to  let  them  fall  without  a  blow  into 
the  clutches  of  a  sanguinary  impostor?  Never!  He  was 
there  to  prevent  that.  The  distant  governments  might 
mutter  something  about  "evacuation";  his  thoughts  were 
elsewhere.  He  poured  them  into  his  telegrams,  and  Sir 
Evelyn  Baring  sat  aghast.  The  man  who  had  left  London 
a  month  before  to  "report  upon  the  best  means  of  effect- 
ing the  evacuation  of  the  Sudan,"  was  now  openly  talking 


294  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

of  "smashing  up  the  Mahdi"  with  the  aid  of  British  and 
Indian  troops.  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  counted  up  on  his  fingers 
the  various  stages  of  this  extraordinary  development  in 
General  Gordon's  opinions.  But  he  might  have  saved  him- 
self the  trouble,  for,  in  fact,  it  was  less  a  development 
than  a  reversion.  Under  the  stress  of  the  excitements  and 
the  realities  of  his  situation  at  Khartoum,  the  policy  which 
Gordon  was  now  proposing  to  carry  out  had  come  to  tally, 
in  every  particular,  with  the  policy  which  he  had  originally 
advocated  with  such  vigorous  conviction  in  the  pages  of 
the  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

Nor  was  the  adaption  of  that  policy  by  the  English 
Government  by  any  means  out  of  the  question.  For,  in 
the  meantime,  events  had  been  taking  place  in  the  East- 
ern Sudan,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Red  Sea  port  of 
Suakin,  which  were  to  have  a  decisive  effect  upon  the 
prospects  of  Khartoum.  General  Baker,  the  brother  of 
Sir  Samuel  Baker,  attempting  to  relieve  the  beleaguered 
garrisons  of  Sinkat  and  Tokar,  had  rashly  attacked  the 
forces  of  Osman  Digna,  had  been  defeated,  and  obliged 
to  retire.  Sinkat  and  Tokar  had  then  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  the  Mahdi's  general.  There  was  a  great  outcry  in  Eng- 
land, and  a  wave  of  warlike  feeling  passed  over  the  coun- 
try. Lord  Wolseley  at  once  drew  up  a  memorandum  ad- 
vocating the  annexation  of  the  Sudan.  In  the  House  of 
Commons  even  Liberals  began  to  demand  vengeance 
and  military  action,  whereupon  the  Government  dis- 
patched Sir  Gerald  Graham  with  a  considerable  British 
force  to  Suakin.  Sir  Gerald  Graham  advanced,  and  in  the 
battles  of  El  Teb  and  Tamai  inflicted  two  bloody  defeats 
upon  the  Mahdi's  forces.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  the  Gov- 
ernment was  now  committed  to  a  policy  of  interference 
and  conquest;  as  if  the  imperialist  section  of  the  Cabinet 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    295 

were  at  last  to  have  their  way.  The  dispatch  of  Sir  Gerald 
Graham  coincided  with  Gordon's  sudden  demand  for 
British  and  Indian  troops  with  which  to  "smash  up  the 
Mahdi."  The  business,  he  assured  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  in 
a  stream  of  telegrams  could  very  easily  be  done.  It  made 
him  sick,  he  said,  to  see  himself  held  in  check  and  the 
people  of  the  Sudan  tyrannised  over  by  "a  feeble  lot  of 
stinking  Dervishes."  Let  Zobeir  at  once  be  sent  down  to 
him,  and  all  would  be  well.  The  original  Sultans  of  the 
country  had  unfortunately  proved  disappointing.  Their 
place  should  be  taken  by  Zobeir.  After  the  Mahdi  had 
been  smashed  up,  Zobeir  should  rule  the  Sudan  as  a  sub- 
sidised vassal  of  England,  on  a  similar  footing  to  that  of 
the  Ameer  of  Afghanistan.  The  plan  was  perhaps  feasible; 
but  it  was  clearly  incompatible  with  the  policy  of  evacua- 
tion, as  it  had  been  hitherto  laid  down  by  the  English 
Government.  Should  they  reverse  that  policy?  Should 
they  appoint  Zobeir,  reinforce  Sir  Gerald  Graham,  and 
smash  up  the  Mahdi?  They  could  not  make  up  their 
minds.  So  far  as  Zobeir  was  concerned,  there  were  two 
counterbalancing  considerations:  on  the  one  hand.  Sir 
Evelyn  Baring  now  declared  that  he  was  in  favour  of  the 
appointment;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  would  English  pub- 
lic opinion  consent  to  a  man,  described  by  Gordon  him- 
self as  "the  greatest  slave-hunter  who  ever  existed,"  being 
given  an  English  subsidy  and  the  control  of  the  Sudan? 
"While  the  Cabinet  was  wavering,  Gordon  took  a  fatal 
step.  The  delay  was  intolerable,  and  one  evening,  in  a  rage, 
he  revealed  his  desire  for  Zobeir — which  had  hitherto 
been  kept  a  profound  official  secret — to  Mr.  Power,  the 
English  Consul  at  Khartoum,  and  the  special  corre- 
spondent of  the  Times.  Perhaps  he  calculated  that  the  pub- 
lic announcement  of  his  wishes  would  oblige  the  Govern- 


296  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

ment  to  yield  to  them;  if  so,  he  was  completely  mis- 
taken, for  the  result  was  the  very  reverse.  The  country, 
already  startled  by  the  proclamation  in  favour  of  slavery, 
could  not  swallow  Zobeir.  The  Anti-Slavery  Society 
set  on  foot  a  violent  agitation,  opinion  in  the  House  of 
Commons  suddenly  stiffened,  and  the  Cabinet,  by  a  sub- 
stantial majority,  decided  that  Zobeir  should  remain  in 
Cairo.  The  imperialist  wave  had  risen  high,  but  it  had 
not  risen  high  enough;  and  now  it  was  rapidly  subsiding. 
The  Government's  next  action  was  decisive.  Sir  Gerald 
Graham  and  his  British  Army  were  withdrawn  from  the 
Sudan. 

The  critical  fortnight  during  which  these  events  took 
place  was  the  first  fortnight  of  March.  By  the  close  of  it, 
Gordon's  position  had  undergone  a  rapid  and  terrible 
change.  Not  only  did  he  find  himself  deprived,  by  the 
decision  of  the  Government,  both  of  the  hope  of  Zobeir's 
assistance  and  of  the  prospect  of  smashing  up  the  Mahdi, 
with  the  aid  of  British  troops;  the  military  movements 
in  the  Eastern  Sudan  produced,  at  the  very  same  moment, 
a  yet  more  fatal  consequence.  The  adherents  of  the  Mahdi 
had  been  maddened,  they  had  not  been  crushed  by  Sir 
Gerald  Graham's  victories.  When,  immediately  after- 
wards, the  English  withdrew  to  Suakin,  from  which  they 
never  again  emerged,  the  inference  seemed  obvious:  they 
had  been  defeated,  and  their  power  was  at  an  end.  The  war- 
like tribes  to  the  north  and  the  north-east  of  Khartoum 
had  long  been  wavering.  They  now  hesitated  no  longer, 
and  joined  the  Mahdi.  From  that  moment — it  was  less 
than  a  month  from  Gordon's  arrival  at  Khartoum — the 
situation  of  the  town  was  desperate.  The  line  of  com- 
munications was  cut.  Though  it  still  might  be  possible 
for  occasional  native  messengers,  or  for  a  few  individuals 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    297 

on  an  armed  steamer,  to  win  their  way  down  the  river 
into  Egypt,  the  removal  of  a  large  number  of  persons — 
the  loyal  inhabitants  or  the  Egyptian  garrison — was 
henceforward  an  impossibility.  The  whole  scheme  of  the 
Gordon  mission  had  irremediably  collapsed;  worse  still, 
Gordon  himself,  so  far  from  having  effected  the  evacua- 
tion of  the  Sudan,  was  surrounded  by  the  enemy.  "The 
question  now  is,"  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  told  Lord  Granville 
on  March  24th,  "how  to  get  General  Gordon  and  Colonel 
Stewart  away  from  Khartoum." 

The  actual  condition  of  the  town,  however,  was  not, 
from  a  military  point  of  view,  so  serious  as  Colonel  Coet- 
logon,  in  the  first  moments  of  panic  after  the  Hicks 
disaster,  had  supposed.  Gordon  was  of  opinion  that  it 
was  capable  of  sustaining  a  siege  of  many  months.  With 
his  usual  vigour,  he  had  already  begun  to  prepare  an 
elaborate  system  of  earthworks,  mines,  and  wire  entangle- 
ments. There  was  a  five  or  six  months'  supply  of  food, 
there  was  a  great  quantity  of  ammunition,  the  garrison 
numbered  about  8000  men.  There  were,  besides,  nine 
small  paddle-wheel  steamers,  hitherto  used  for  purposes  of 
communication  along  the  Nile,  which,  fitted  with  guns 
and  protected  by  metal  plates,  were  of  considerable  mili- 
tary value.  "We  are  all  right,"  Gordon  told  his  sister  on 
March  15th.  "We  shall,  D.V.,  go  on  for  months."  So  far, 
at  any  rate,  there  was  no  cause  for  despair.  But  the  effer- 
vescent happiness  of  three  weeks  since  had  vanished. 
Gloom,  doubt,  disillusionment,  had  swooped  down  again 
upon  their  victim. 

Either  I  must  believe  He  does  all  things  in  mercy  and  love,  or 
else  I  disbelieve  His  existence,  there  is  no  half  way  in  the  matter. 
"What  holes  do  I  not  put  myself  into!  And  for  what?  So  mixed 
are  my  ideas.  I  believe  ambition  put  me  here  in  this  ruin. 


2^B  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

Was  not  that  the  explanation  of  it  all?  "Our  Lord's 
promise  h  not  for  the  fulfilment  of  earthly  wishes;  there- 
fore,  if  things  come  to  ruin  here  He's  still  faithful,  and 
is  carrying  out  His  great  work  of  divine  wisdom."  How 
could  he  have  forgotten  that?  But  he  would  not  transgress 
again.  "I  owe  all  to  God,  and  nothing  to  myself,  for, 
humanly  speaking,  I  have  done  very  foolish  things.  How- 
ever, if  I  am  humbled,  the  better  for  me." 

News  of  the  changed  circumstances  at  Khartoum  was 
not  slow  in  reaching  England,  and  a  feeling  of  anxiety 
began  to  spread.  Among  the  first  to  realise  the  gravity  of 
the  situation  was  Queen  Victoria.  "It  is  alarming,"  she 
telegraphed  to  Lord  Hartington  on  March  25  th.  "General 
Gordon  is  in  danger;  you  are  bound  to  try  to  save  him.  .  .  . 
You  have  incurred  fearful  responsibility."  With  an  un- 
erring instinct,  Her  Majesty  forestalled  and  expressed  the 
popular  sentiment.  During  April  when  it  had  become 
clear  that  the  wire  between  Khartoum  and  Cairo  had  been 
severed,  when,  as  time  passed,  no  word  came  northward, 
save  vague  rumours  of  disaster,  when  at  last  a  curtain  of 
impenetrable  mystery  closed  over  Khartoum,  the  growing 
uneasiness  manifested  itself  in  letters  to  the  newspapers, 
in  leading  articles,  and  in  a  flood  of  subscriptions  towards 
a  relief  fund.  At  the  beginning  of  May,  the  public  alarm 
reached  a  climax.  It  now  appeared  to  be  certain,  not  only 
that  General  Gordon  was  in  imminent  danger,  but  that 
no  steps  had  yet  been  taken  by  the  Government  to  save 
him.  On  the  5  th,  there  was  a  meeting  of  protest  and  in- 
dignation at  St.  James's  Hall;  on  the  9th  there  was  a  mass 
meeting  in  Hyde  Park;  on  the  nth  there  was  a  meeting 
at  Manchester.  The  Baroness  Burdett-Coutts  wrote  an 
agitated  letter  to  the  Times  begging  for  further  subscrip- 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    299 

tions.  Somebody  else  proposed  that  a  special  fund  should 
be  started,  with  which  "to  bribe  the  tribes  to  secure  the 
General's  personal  safety."  A  country  vicar  made  an- 
other suggestion.  Why  should  not  public  prayers  be  of- 
fered up  for  General  Gordon  in  every  church  in  the 
kingdom?  He  himself  had  adopted  that  course  last  Sunday. 
"Is  not  this,"  he  concluded,  "what  the  godly  man,  the 
true  hero,  himself  would  wish  to  be  done?"  It  was  all  of 
no  avail.  General  Gordon  remained  in  peril;  the  Govern- 
ment remained  inactive.  Finally,  a  vote  of  censure  waj; 
moved  in  the  House  of  Commons;  but  that  too  proved 
useless.  It  was  strange.  The  same  executive  which,  two 
months  before,  had  trimmed  its  sails  so  eagerly  to  the 
shifting  gusts  of  popular  opinion,  now,  in  spite  of  a 
rising  hurricane,  held  on  its  course.  A  new  spirit,  it  was 
clear — a  determined,  an  intractable  spirit — had  taken 
control  of  the  Sudan  situation.  What  was  it?  The  explana- 
tion was  simple,  and  it  was  ominous.  Mr.  Gladstone  had 
intervened. 

The  old  statesman  was  now  entering  upon  the  penulti- 
mate period  of  his  enormous  career.  He  who  had  once 
been  the  rising  hope  of  the  stern  and  unbending  Tories, 
had  at  length  emerged,  after  a  life-time  of  transmuta- 
tions, as  the  champion  of  militant  democracy.  He  was 
at  the  apex  of  his  power.  His  great  rival  was  dead;  he 
stood  pre-eminent  in  the  eye  of  the  nation;  he  enjoyed 
the  applause,  the  confidence,  the  admiration,  the  adora- 
tion, even,  of  multitudes.  Yet — such  was  the  peculiar 
character  of  the  man,  and  such  the  intensity  of  the  feel- 
ings which  he  called  forth — at  this  very  moment,  at  the 
height  of  his  popularity,  he  v/as  distrusted  and  loathed; 
already  an  unparalleled  animosity  was  gathering  its  forces 
against  him.  For,  indeed,  there  was  something  inliis  nature 


300  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

which  invited — which  demanded — the  clashing  reactions 
of  passionate  extremes.  It  was  easy  to  worship  Mr.  Glad- 
stone; to  see  in  him  the  perfect  model  of  the  upright  man 
— the  man  of  virtue  and  of  religion — the  man  whose 
whole  life  had  been  devoted  to  the  application  of  high 
principles  to  affairs  of  State — the  man,  too,  whose  sense 
of  right  and  justice  was  invigorated  and  ennobled  by  an 
enthusiastic  heart.  It  was  also  easy  to  detest  him  as  a  hypo- 
crite, to  despise  him  as  a  demagogue,  and  to  dread  him 
as  a  crafty  manipulator  of  men  and  things  for  the  pur- 
poses of  his  own  ambition.  It  might  have  been  supposed 
that  one  or  other  of  these  conflicting  judgments  must 
have  been  palpably  absurd,  that  nothing  short  of  gross 
prejudice  or  wilful  blindness,  on  one  side  or  the  other, 
could  reconcile  such  contradictory  conceptions  of  a 
single  human  being.  But  it  was  not  so;  "the  elements" 
were  "so  mixed"  in  Mr.  Gladstone  that  his  bitterest 
enemies  (and  his  enemies  were  never  mild)  and  his 
warmest  friends  (and  his  friends  were  never  tepid)  could 
justify,  with  equal  plausibility,  their  denunciations  or 
their  praises.  What,  then,  was  the  truth?  In  the  physical 
universe  there  are  no  chimeras.  But  man  is  more  various 
than  nature;  was  Mr.  Gladstone,  perhaps,  a  chimera  of 
the  spirit?  Did  his  very  essence  lie  in  the  confusion  of 
incompatibles?  His  very  essence?  It  eludes  the  hand  that 
seems  to  grasp  it.  One  is  baffled,  as  his  political  opponents 
were  baffled  fifty  years  ago.  The  soft  serpent  coils  harden 
into  quick  strength  that  has  vanished,  leaving  only  emp- 
tiness and  perplexity  behind.  Speech  was  the  fibre  of  his 
being;  and,  when  he  spoke,  the  ambiguity  of  ambiguity 
was  revealed.  The  long,  winding,  intricate  sentences,  with 
their  vast  burden  of  subtle  and  complicated  qualifications, 
befogged   the  mind  like   clouds,   and   like  clouds,   too, 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    3OI 

dropped  thunderbolts.  Could  it  not  then  at  least  be  said 
of  him  with  certainty  that  his  was  a  complex  character? 
But  here  also  there  was  a  contradiction.  In  spite  of 'the 
involutions  of  his  intellect  and  the  contortions  of  his 
spirit  it  is  impossible  not  to  perceive  a  strain  of  naivete 
in  Mr.  Gladstone.  He  adhered  to  some  of  his  principles — 
that  of  the  value  of  representative  institutions,  for 
instance, — with  a  faith  which  was  singularly  liberal;  his 
views  upon  religion  were  uncritical  to  crudeness;  he  had 
no  sense  of  humour.  Compared  with  Disraeli's,  his  attitude 
towards  life  strikes  one  as  that  of  an  ingenuous  child. 
His  very  egoism  was  simple-minded:  through  all  the  laby- 
rinth of  his  passions  there  ran  a  single  thread.  But  the 
centre  of  the  labyrinth?  Ah!  the  thread  might  lead  there, 
through  those  wandering  mazes,  at  last.  Only,  with  the 
last  corner  turned,  the  last  step  taken,  the  explorer  might 
find  that  he  was  looking  down  into  the  gulf  of  a  crater. 
The  flame  shot  out  on  every  side,  scorching  and  brilliant, 
but  in  the  midst  there  was  a  darkness. 

That  Mr.  Gladstone's  motives  and  ambitions  were  not 
merely  those  of  a  hunter  after  popularity  was  never  shown 
more  clearly  than  in  that  part  of  his  career  which,  more 
than  any  other,  has  been  emphasised  by  his  enemies — his 
conduct  towards  General  Gordon.  He  had  been  originally 
opposed  to  Gordon's  appointment,  but  he  had  consented 
to  it  partly,  perhaps,  owing  to  the  persuasion  that  its 
purpose  did  not  extend  beyond  the  making  of  a  "re- 
port." Gordon  once  gone,  events  had  taken  their  own 
course;  the  policy  of  the  Government  began  to  slide, 
automatically,  down  a  slope  at  the  bottom  of  which 
lay  the  conquest  of  the  Sudan  and  the  annexation  of 
Egypt.  Sir  Gerald  Graham's  bloody  victories  awoke  Mr. 
Gladstone  to  the  true  condition  of  affairs;  he  recognised 


302  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

the  road  he  was  on  and  its  destination ;  but  there  was  still 
time  to  turn  back.  It  was  he  who  had  insisted  upon  the 
wit4idrawal  of  the  English  army  from  the  Eastern  Sudan. 
The  imperialists  were  sadly  disappointed.  They  had  sup- 
posed that  the  old  lion  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  suddenly 
he  had  come  out  of  his  lair,  and  was  roaring.  All  their 
hopes  now  centred  upon  Khartoum.  General  Gordon  was 
cut  off;  he  was  surrounded,  he  was  in  danger;  he  must  be 
relieved.  A  British  force  must  be  sent  to  save  him.  But 
Mr.  Gladstone  was  not  to  be  caught  napping  a  second  time. 
When  the  agitation  rose,  when  popular  sentiment  was 
deeply  stirred,  when  the  country,  the  Press,  the  sovereign 
herself,  declared  that  the  national  honour  was  involved 
with  the  fate  of  General  Gordon,  Mr.  Gladstone  remained 
immovable.  Others  might  picture  the  triumphant  rescue 
of  a  Christian  hero  from  the  clutches  of  heathen  savages; 
before  his  eyes  was  the  vision  of  battle,  murder,  and  sud- 
den death,  the  horrors  of  defeat  and  victory,  the  slaughter 
and  the  anguish  of  thousands,  the  violence  of  military 
domination,  the  enslavement  of  a  people.  The  invasion  of 
the  Sudan,  he  had  flashed  out  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
would  be  a  war  of  conquest  against  a  people  struggling 
to  be  free.  "Yes,  those  people  are  struggling  to  be  free, 
and  they  are  rightly  struggling  to  be  free."  Mr.  Glad- 
stone— it  was  one  of  his  old-fashioned  simplicities — be- 
lieved in  liberty.  If,  indeed,  it  should  turn  out  to  be  the 
fact  that  General  Gordon  was  in  serious  danger,  then,  no 
doubt,  it  would  be  necessary  to  send  a  relief  expedition 
to  Khartoum.  But  he  could  see  no  sufficient  reason  to 
believe  that  it  was  the  fact.  Communications,  it  was  true, 
had  been  interrupted  between  Khartoum  and  Cairo  but 
no  news  was  not  necessarily  bad  news,  and  the  little  in- 
formation that  had  come  through  from  General  Gordon 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    303 

seemed  to  indicate  that  he  could  hold  out  for  months.  So 
his  agile  mind  worked,  spinning  its  familiar  web  of  possi- 
bilities and  contingencies  and  fine  distinctions.  General 
Gordon,  he  was  convinced,  might  be  hemmed  in,  but  he 
was  not  surrounded.  Surely,  it  was  the  duty  of  the  Govern- 
ment to  take  no  rash  step,  but  to  consider  and  to  enquire 
and,  when  it  acted,  to  act  upon  reasonable  conviction. 
And  then,  there  was  another  question.  If  it  was  true — 
and  he  believed  it  was  true — that  General  Gordon's  line 
of  retreat  was  open,  why  did  not  General  Gordon  use  it? 
Perhaps  he  might  be  unable  to  withdraw  the  Egyptian 
garrison,  but  it  was  not  for  the  sake  of  the  Egyptian 
garrison  that  the  relief  expedition  was  proposed;  it  was 
simply  and  solely  to  secure  the  personal  safety  of  General 
Gordon.  And  General  Gordon  had  it  in  his  power  to  secure 
his  personal  safety  himself;  and  he  refused  to  do  so;  he 
lingered  on  in  Khartoum,  deliberately,  wilfully,  in  de- 
fiance of  the  obvious  wishes  of  his  superiors.  Oh!  it  was 
perfectly  clear  what  General  Gordon  was  doing:  he  was 
trying  to  force  the  hand  of  the  English  Government.  He 
was  hoping  that  if  he  remained  long  enough  at  Khartoum 
he  would  oblige  the  English  Government  to  send  an  army 
into  the  Sudan  which  should  smash  up  the  Mahdi.  That, 
then,  was  General  Gordon's  calculation!  "Well,  General 
Gordon  would  learn  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  "Who 
was  he  that  he  should  dare  to  imagine  that  he  could 
impose  his  will  upon  Mr.  Gladstone?  The  old  man's  eyes 
glared.  If  it  came  to  a  struggle  between  them — well,  they 
should  see!  As  the  weeks  passed,  the  strange  situation  grew 
tenser.  It  was  like  some  silent  deadly  game  of  bluff.  And 
who  knows  what  was  passing  in  the  obscure  depths  of  that 
terrifying  spirit?  What  mysterious  mixture  of  remorse, 
rage  and  jealousy?  "Who  was  it  that  was  ultimately  respon- 


304  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

sible  for  sending  General  Gordon  to  Khartoum?  But  then, 
what  did  that  matter?  Why  did  not  the  man  come  back? 
He  was  a  Christian  hero,  was  he?  Were  there  no  other 
Christian  heroes  in  the  world?  A  Christian  hero!  Let 
him  wait  till  the  Mahdi's  ring  was  really  round  him,  till 
the  Mahdi's  spear  was  really  about  to  fall!  That  would  be 
the  test  of  heroism!  If  he  slipped  back  then,  with  his  tail 
between  his  legs — !  The  world  would  judge. 

One  of  the  last  telegrams  sent  by  Gordon  before  the 
wire  was  cut  seemed  to  support  exactly  Mr.  Gladstone's 
diagnosis  of  the  case.  He  told  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  that, 
since  the  Government  refused  to  send  either  an  expedition 
or  Zobeir,  he  would  "consider  himself  free  to  act  accord- 
ing to  circumstancs."  "Eventually,"  he  said,  "you  will 
be  forced  to  smash  up  the  Mahdi,"  and  he  declared  that 
if  the  Government  persisted  in  its  present  line  of  conduct, 
it  would  be  branded  with  an  "indelible  disgrace."  The 
message  was  made  public,  and  it  happened  that  Mr. 
Gladstone  saw  it  for  the  first  time  in  a  newspaper,  during 
a  country  visit.  Another  of  the  guests,  who  was  in  the 
room  at  the  moment,  thus  describes  the  scene.  "He  took 
up  the  paper,  his  eye  instantly  fell  on  the  telegram,  and 
he  read  it  through.  As  he  read,  his  face  hardened  and 
whitened,  the  eyes  burned  as  I  have  seen  them  once  or 
twice  in  the  House  of  Commons  when  he  was  angered — 
burned  with  a  deep  fire,  as  if  they  would  have  consumed 
the  sheet  on  which  Gordon's  message  was  printed,  or  as 
if  Gordon's  words  had  burnt  into  his  soul  which  was  look- 
ing out  in  wrath  and  flame.  He  said  not  a  word.  For  per- 
haps two  or  three  minutes  he  sat  still,  his  face  all  the  while 
like  the  face  you  may  read  of  in  Milton — like  none  other 
I  ever  saw.  Then  he  rose,  still  without  a  word,  and  was 
seen  no  more  that  morning." 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    305 

It  is  curious  that  Gordon  himself  never  understood 
the  part  that  Mr.  Gladstone  was  playing  in  his  destiny. 
His  Khartoum  Journals  put  this  beyond  a  doubt.  Except 
for  one  or  two  slight  and  jocular  references  to  Mr.  Glad- 
stone's minor  idiosyncrasies — the  shape  of  his  collars,  and 
his  passion  for  felling  trees — Gordon  leaves  him  unnoticed, 
while  he  lavishes  his  sardonic  humour  upon  Lord  Gran- 
ville. But  in  truth  Lord  Granville  was  a  nonentity.  The 
error  shows  how  dim  the  realities  of  England  had  grown 
to  the  watcher  in  Khartoum.  When  he  looked  towards 
home,  the  figure  that  loomed  largest  upon  his  vision  was — 
it  was  only  natural  that  it  should  have  been  so — the  near- 
est. It  was  upon  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  that  he  fixed  his  gaze. 
For  him  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  was  the  embodiment  of  Eng- 
land— or  rather  the  embodiment  of  the  English  official 
classes,  of  English  diplomacy,  of  the  English  Government 
with  its  hesitations,  its  insincerities,  its  double-faced 
schemes.  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  he  almost  came  to  think  at 
moments,  was  the  prime  mover,  the  sole  contriver,  of  the 
whole  Sudan  imbroglio.  In  this  he  was  wrong;  for  Sir 
Evelyn  Baring,  of  course,  was  an  intermediary,  without 
final  responsibility  or  final  power;  but  Gordon's  profound 
antipathy,  his  instinctive  distrust,  were  not  without  their 
justification.  He  could  never  forget  that  first  meeting  in 
Cairo,  six  years  earlier,  when  the  fundamental  hostility 
between  the  two  men  had  leapt  to  the  surface.  "When  oil 
mixes  with  water,"  he  said,  "we  will  mix  together."  Sir 
Evelyn  Baring  thought  so  too;  but  he  did  not  say  so;  it 
was  not  his  way.  When  he  spoke,  he  felt  no  temptation  to 
express  everything  that  was  in  his  mind.  In  all  he  did,  he 
was  cautious,  measured,  unimpeachably  correct.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  think  of  a  man  more  completely  the  antithe- 
sis of  Gordon.  His  temperament,  all  in  monochrome, 


}06  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

touched  in  with  cold  blues  and  indecisive  greys,  was  emi- 
nently unromantic.  He  had  a  steely  colourlessness,  and  a 
steely  pliability,  and  a  steely  strength.  Endowed  beyond 
most  men  with  the  capacity  of  foresight,  he  was  endowed 
as  very  few  men  have  ever  been  with  that  staying-power 
which  makes  the  fruit  of  foresight  attainable.  His  views 
were  long,  and  his  patience  was  even  longer.  He  progressed 
imperceptibly;  he  constantly  withdrew;  the  art  of  giving 
way  he  practised  with  the  refinement  of  a  virtuoso.  But, 
though  the  steel  recoiled  and  recoiled,  in  the  end  it  would 
spring  forward.  His  life's  work  had  in  it  an  element  of 
paradox.  It  was  passed  entirely  in  the  East;  and  the  East 
meant  very  little  to  him;  he  took  no  interest  in  it.  It  was 
something  to  be  looked  after.  It  was  also  a  convenient  field 
for  the  talents  of  Sir  Evelyn  Baring.  Yet  it  must  not  be 
supposed  that  he  was  cynical;  perhaps  he  was  not  quite 
great  enough  for  that.  He  looked  forward  to  a  pleasant  re- 
tirement— a  country  place — some  literary  recreations.  He 
had  been  careful  to  keep  up  his  classics.  His  ambition  can 
be  stated  in  a  single  phrase;  it  was,  to  become  an  institu- 
tion; and  he  achieved  it.  No  doubt,  too,  he  deserved  it. 
The  greatest  of  poets,  in  a  bitter  mood,  has  described  the 
characteristics  of  a  certain  class  of  persons,  whom  he  did 
not  like.  "They,"  he  says, 

"that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do  none, 
That  do  not  do  the  things  they  most  do  show, 
Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone. 
Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow, 
They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces. 
And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces.  .  . ." 

rhe  words  might  have  been  written  for  Sir  Evelyn  Baring. 
Though,  as  a  rule,  he  found  it  easy  to  despise  those  with 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON     307 

whom  he  came  into  contact,  he  could  not  altogether  de- 
spise General  Gordon.  If  he  could  have,  he  would  have 
disliked  kim  less.  He  had  gone  as  far  as  his  caution  had 
allowed  him  in  trying  to  prevent  the  fatal  appointment; 
and  then,  when  it  had  become  clear  that  the  Government 
was  insistent,  he  had  yielded  with  a  good  giace.  For  a 
moment,  he  had  imagined  that  ail  might  yet  be  well;  that 
he  could  impose  himself,  by  the  weight  of  his  position  and 
the  force  of  his  sagacity,  upon  his  self-willed  subordinate; 
that  he  could  hold  him  in  a  leash  at  the  end  of  the  tele- 
graph wire  to  Khartoum.  Very  soon  he  perceived  that  this 
was  a  miscalculation.  To  his  disgust,  he  found  that  the  tele- 
graph wire,  far  from  being  an  instrument  of  official  disci- 
pline, had  been  converted  by  the  agile  strategist  at  the 
other  end  of  it  into  a  means  of  extending  his  own  person- 
ality into  the  deliberations  of  Cairo.  Every  morning  Sir 
Evelyn  Baring  would  find  upon  his  table  a  great  pile  of 
telegrams  from  Khartoum — twenty  or  thirty  at  least; 
and  as  the  day  went  on,  the  pile  would  grow.  When  a  suffi- 
cient number  had  accumulated  he  would  read  them  all 
through,  with  the  greatest  care.  There  upon  the  table,  the 
whole  soul  of  Gordon  lay  before  him — in  its  incoherence, 
its  eccentricity,  its  impulsivness,  its  romance;  the  jokes,  the 
slang,  the  appeals  to  the  prophet  Isaiah,  the  whirl  of  con- 
tradictory policies — Sir  Evelyn  Baring  did  not  know 
which  exasperated  him  most.  He  would  not  consider 
whether,  or  to  what  degree,  the  man  was  a  maniac;  no  he 
would  not.  A  subacid  smile  was  the  only  comment  he 
allowed  himself.  His  position,  indeed,  was  an  extremely 
difficult  one,  and  all  his  dexterity  would  be  needed  if  he 
was  to  emerge  from  it  with  credit.  On  one  side  of  him 
was  a  veering  and  vacillating  Government;  on  the  other, 
a  frenzied  enthusiast.  It  was  his  business  to  interpret  to 


308  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

the  first  the  wishes,  or  rather  the  inspirations,  of  the  sec- 
ond, and  to  convey  to  the  second  the  decisions,  or  rather 
the  indecisions,  of  the  first.  A  weaker  man  would  have 
floated  helplessly  on  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  Cabinet's 
wavering  policies;  a  rasher  man  would  have  plunged  head- 
long into  Gordon's  schemes.  He  did  neither;  with  a  singu- 
lar courage  and  a  singular  caution  he  progressed  along 
a  razor-edge.  He  devoted  all  his  energies  to  the  double  task 
»f  evolving  a  reasonable  policy  out  of  Gordon's  intoxicated 
telegrams,  and  of  inducing  the  divided  Ministers  at  home 
to  give  their  sanction  to  what  he  had  evolved.  He  might 
have  succeeded,  if  he  had  not  had  to  reckon  with  yet  an- 
other irreconcilable;  Time  was  a  vital  element  in  the  situ- 
ation, and  Time  was  against  him.  When  the  tribes  round 
Khartoum  rose,  the  last  hope  of  a  satisfactory  solution 
vanished.  He  was  the  first  to  perceive  the  altered  condition 
of  affairs;  long  before  the  Government,  long  before  Gor- 
don himself,  he  understood  that  the  only  remaining  ques-. 
tion  was  that  of  the  extrication  of  the  Englishmen  from 
Khartoum.  He  proposed  that  a  small  force  should  be  dis- 
patched at  once  across  the  desert  from  Suakin  to  Berber, 
the  point  on  the  Nile  nearest  to  the  Red  Sea,  and  thence  up 
the  river  to  Gordon;  but,  after  considerable  hesitation, 
the  military  authorities  decided  that  this  was  not  a  prac- 
ticable plan.  Upon  that,  he  foresaw,  with  perfect  lucidity, 
the  inevitable  development  of  events.  Sooner  or  later, 
it  would  be  absolutely  necessary  to  send  a  relief  expedition 
to  Khartoum;  and,  from  that  premise,  it  followed,  with- 
out a  possibility  of  doubt,  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the 
Government  to  do  so  at  once.  This  he  saw  quite  clearly; 
but  he  also  saw  that  the  position  in  the  Cabinet  had  now 
altered,  that  Mr.  Gladstone  had  taken  the  reins  into  his 
own  hands.  And  Mr.  Gladstone  did  not  wish  to  send  a 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    309 

relief  expedition.  What  was  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  to  do?  Was 
he  to  pit  his  strength  against  Mr.  Gladstone's?  To  threaten 
resignation?  To  stake  his  whole  future  upon  General 
Gordon's  fate?  For  a  moment  he  wavered;  he  seemed  to 
hint  that  unless  the  Government  sent  a  message  to  Khar- 
toum promising  a  relief  expedition  before  the  end  of  the 
year,  he  would  be  unable  to  be  a  party  to  their  acts.  The 
Government  refused  to  send  any  such  message;  and  he 
perceived,  as  he  tells  us,  that  "it  was  evidently  useless  to 
continue  the  correspondence  any  further."  After  all, 
what  could  he  do?  He  was  still  only  a  secondary  figure; 
his  resignation  would  be  accepted;  he  would  be  given  a 
colonial  governorship,  and  Gordon  would  be  no  nearer 
safety.  But  then,  could  he  sit  by,  and  witness  a  horrible 
catastrophe,  without  lifting  a  hand?  Of  all  the  odious 
dilemmas  which  that  man  had  put  him  into,  this,  he  re- 
flected, was  the  most  odious.  He  slightly  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  No;  he  might  have  "power  to  hurt,"  but  he 
would  "do  none."  He  wrote  a  dispatch — a  long,  balanced, 
guarded,  grey  dispatch,  informing  the  Government  that 
he  "ventured  to  think"  that  it  was  "a  question  worthy  of 
consideration,  whether  the  naval  and  military  authorities 
should  not  take  some  preliminary  steps  in  the  way  of 
preparing  boats,  etc.,  so  as  to  be  able  to  move,  should  the 
necessity  arise."  Then,  within  a  week,  before  the  receipt 
of  the  Government's  answer,  he  left  Egypt.  From  the 
end  of  April  till  the  beginning  of  September — during  the 
most  momentous  period  of  the  whole  crisis — he  was  en- 
gaged in  London  upon  a  financial  conference,  while 
his  place  was  taken  in  Cairo  by  a  substitute.  With  a  char- 
acteristically convenient  unobtrusiveness,  Sir  Evelyn 
Baring  had  vanished  from  the  scene. 

Meanwhile,  far  to  the  southward,  over  the  widespread- 


3IO  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

ing  lands  watered  by  the  Upper  Nile  and  its  tributaries, 
the  power  and  the  glory  of  him  who  had  once  been 
Mahommed  Ahmed  were  growing  still.  In  the  Bahr-el- 
Ghazal,  the  last  embers  of  resistance  were  stamped  out 
with  the  capture  of  Lupton  Bey,  and  through  the  whole 
of  that  vast  province — three  times  the  size  of  England — 
every  trace  of  the  Egyptian  Government  was  obliterated. 
Still  further  south  the  same  fate  was  rapidly  overtaking 
Equatoria,  where  Emin  Pasha,  withdrawing  into  the  unex- 
plored depths  of  central  Africa,  carried  with  him  the  last 
vestiges  of  the  old  order.  The  Mahdi  himself  still  lingered 
in  his  headquarters  at  El  Obeid;  but,  on  the  rising  of  the 
tribes  round  Khartoum,  he  had  decided  that  the  time  for 
an  offensive  movement  had  come,  and  had  dispatched  an 
army  of  thirty  thousand  men  to  lay  siege  to  the  city.  At 
the  same  time,  in  a  long  and  elaborate  proclamation,  in 
which  he  asserted,  with  all  the  elegance  of  oriental  rhetoric, 
both  the  sanctity  of  his  mission  and  the  invincibility  of 
his  troops,  he  called  upon  the  inhabitants  to  surrender.. 
Gordon  read  aloud  the  summons  to  the  assembled  towns- 
people; with  one  voice  they  declared  that  they  were  ready 
to  resist.  This  was  a  false  Mahdi,  they  said;  God  would 
defend  the  right;  they  put  their  trust  in  the  Governor- 
General.  The  most  learned  Sheikh  in  the  town  drew  up 
a  theological  reply,  pointing  out  that  the  Mahdi  did  not 
fulfil  the  requirements  of  the  ancient  prophets.  At  his 
appearance,  had  the  Euphrates  dried  i*-p  and  revealed  a 
hill  of  gold?  Had  contradiction  and  difference  ceased 
upon  the  earth?  And  moreover,  did  not  the  faithful  know 
that  the  true  Mahdi  was  born  in  the  year  of  the  prophet 
255,  from  which  it  surely  followed  that  he  must  be  now 
1046  years  old?  And  was  it  not  clear  to  all  men  that  this 
pretender  was  not  a  tenth  of  that  age?  These  arguments 


THE    END    OF    GENERAL    GORDON  31I 

were  certainly  forcible;  hut  the  Mahdi's  army  was  more 
forcible  still.  The  besieged  sallied  out  to  the  attack;  they 
were  defeated;  and  the  rout  that  followed  was  so  dis- 
graceful that  two  of  the  commanding  officers  were,  by 
Gordon's  orders,  executed  as  traitors.  From  that  moment 
the  regular  investment  of  Khartoum  began.  The  Arab 
generals  decided  to  starve  the  town  into  submission.  When, 
after  a  few  weeks  of  doubt,  it  became  certain  that  no 
British  force  was  on  its  way  from  Suakin  to  smash  up  the 
Mahdi,  and  when,  at  the  end  of  May,  Berber,  the  last  con- 
necting link  between  Khartoum  and  the  outside  world, 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  Gordon  set  his  teeth, 
and  sat  down  to  wait  and  to  hope,  as  best  he  might.  With 
unceasing  energy  he  devoted  himself  to  the  strengthen- 
ing of  his  defences  and  the  organisation  of  his  resources — 
to  the  digging  of  earthworks,  the  manufacture  of  am- 
munition, the  collection  and  the  distribution  of  food. 
Every  day  there  were  sallies  and  skirmishes;  every  day  his 
little  armoured  steamboats  paddled  up  and  down  the 
river,  scattering  death  and  terror  as  they  went.  What- 
ever the  emergency,  he  was  ready  with  devices  and  expe- 
dients. When  the  earthworks  were  still  uncompleted  he 
procured  hundreds  of  yards  of  cotton,  which  he  dyed 
the  colour  of  earth,  and  spread  out  in  long  sloping  lines, 
so  as  to  deceive  the  Arabs,  while  the  real  works  were  being 
prepared  further  back.  When  a  lack  of  money  began  to 
make  itself  felt,  he  printed  and  circulated  a  paper  coinage 
of  his  own.  To  combat  the  growing  discontent  and  dis- 
affection of  the  townspeople  he  instituted  a  system  of 
orders  and  medals;  the  women  were  not  forgotten;  and 
his  popularity  redoubled.  There  was  terror  in  the  thought 
that  harm  might  come  to  the  Governor-General.  Awe 
and  reverence  followed  him;  wherever  he  went,  he  waf 


312  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

surrounded  by  a  vigilant  and  jealous  guard,  like  some 
precious  idol,  some  mascot  of  victory.  How  could  he  go 
away?  How  could  he  desert  his  people?  It  was  impossible. 
It  would  be,  as  he  himself  exclaimed  in  one  of  his  latest 
telegrams  to  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  "the  climax  of  meanness," 
even  to  contemplate  such  an  act.  Sir  Evelyn  Baring 
thought  differently.  In  his  opinion  it  was  General  Gordon's 
plain  duty  to  have  come  away  from  Khartoum.  To  stay 
involved  inevitably  a  relief  expedition — a  great  expense  of 
treasure  and  the  loss  of  valuable  lives;  to  come  away  would 
merely  mean  that  the  inhabitants  of  Khartoum  would  be 
"taken  prisoner  by  the  Mahdi."  So  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  put 
it;  but  the  case  was  not  quite  so  simple  as  that.  When  Ber- 
ber fell,  there  had  been  a  massacre  lasting  for  days — an  ap- 
palling orgy  of  loot  and  lust  and  slaughter;  when  Khar- 
toum itself  was  captured,  what  followed  was  still  more 
terrible.  Decidedly,  it  was  no  child's  play  to  be  "taken 
prisoner  by  the  Mahdi."  And  Gordon  was  actually  there 
among  those  people,  in  closest  intercourse  with  them, 
responsible,  beloved.  Yes,  no  doubt.  But  was  that,  in  truth, 
his  only  motive?  Did  he  not  wish  in  reality,  by  lingering  in 
Khartoum,  to  force  the  hand  of  the  Government?  To 
oblige  them,  whether  they  would  or  no,  to  send  an  army 
to  smash  up  the  Mahdi?  And  was  that  fair?  "Was  that 
his  duty?  He  might  protest,  with  his  last  breath,  that 
he  had  "tried  to  do  his  duty";  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  at  any 
rate,  would  not  agree. 

But  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  was  inaudible,  and  Gordon  now 
cared  very  little  for  his  opinions.  Is  it  possible  that,  if 
only  for  a  moment,  in  his  extraordinary  predicament, 
he  may  have  listened  to  another  and  a  very  different 
voice — a  voice  of  singular  quality,  a  voice  which — for 
so  one  would  fain  imagine — may  well   have  wakened 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    313 

some  familiar  echoes  in  his  heart?  One  day,  he  received 
a  private  letter  from  the  Mahdi.  The  letter  was  accom- 
panied by  a  small  bundle  of  clothes. 

In  the  name  of  God!  [wrote  the  Mahdi]  herewith  a  suit  of 
clothes,  consisting  of  a  coat  (jibbeh),  an  overcoat,  a  turban, 
a  cap,  a  girdle,  and  beads.  This  is  the  clothing  of  those  who  have 
given  up  this  world  and  its  vanities,  and  who  look  for  the  world 
to  come,  for  everlasting  happiness  in  Paradise.  If  you  truly  desire 
to  come  to  God  and  seek  to  live  a  godly  life,  you  must  at  once 
wear  this  suit,  and  come  out  to  accept  your  everlasting  good 
fortune. 

Did  the  words  bear  no  meaning  to  the  mystic  of  Graves- 
end?  But  he  was  an  English  gentleman,  an  English  oflBcer. 
He  flung  the  clothes  to  the  ground,  and  trampled  on  them 
in  the  sight  of  all.  Then  alone,  he  went  up  to  the  roof  of  his 
high  palace  and  turned  the  telescope  once  more,  almost 
mechanically,  towards  the  north. 

But  nothing  broke  the  immovability  of  that  hard  hori- 
zon; and,  indeed,  how  was  it  possible  that  help  should 
come  to  him  now?  He  seemed  to  be  utterly  abandoned. 
Sir  Evelyn  Baring  had  disappeared  into  his  financial  con- 
ference. In  England,  Mr.  Gladstone  had  held  firm,  had 
outfaced  the  House  of  Commons,  had  ignored  the  Press. 
He  appeared  to  have  triumphed.  Though  it  was  clear 
that  no  preparations  of  any  kind  were  being  made  for 
the  relief  of  Gordon,  the  anxiety  and  agitation  of  the 
public,  which  had  risen  so  suddenly  to  such  a  height  of 
vehemence,  had  died  down.  The  dangerous  beast  had  been 
quelled  by  the  stern  eye  of  its  master.  Other  questions 
became  more  interesting— ^the  Reform  Bill,  the  Russians, 
the  House  of  Lords.  Gordon,  silent  in  Khartoum,  had  al- 
most dropped  out  of  remembrance.  And  yet,  help  did 
come  after  all.  And  it  came  from  an  unexpected  quarter. 


314  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

Lord  Hartington  had  been  for  some  time  convinced  that 
he  was  responsible  for  Gordon's  appointment;  and  his 
conscience  was  beginning  to  grow  uncomfortable. 

Lord  Hartington's  conscience  was  of  a  piece  with  the 
rest  of  him.  It  was  not,  like  Mr.  Gladstone's,  a  salamander- 
conscience — an  intangible,  dangerous  creature,  that  loved 
to  live  in  the  fire;  nor,  like  Sir  Evelyn  Baring's,  a  diplo- 
matic conscience;  it  was  a  commonplace  affair.  Lord 
Hartington  himself  would  have  been  disgusted  by  any 
mention  of  it.  If  he  had  been  obliged,  he  would  have  al- 
luded to  it  distantly;  he  would  have  muttered  that  it  was 
a  bore  not  to  do  the  proper  thing.  He  was  usually  bored — 
for  one  reason  or  another;  but  this  particular  form  of 
boredom  he  found  more  intense  than  all  the  rest.  He  would 
take  endless  pains  to  avoid  it.  Of  course,  the  whole  thing 
was  a  nuisance — an  obvious  nuisance;  and  everyone  else 
must  feel  just  as  he  did  about  it.  And  yet  people  seemed 
to  have  got  it  into  their  heads  that  he  had  some  kind  of 
special  faculty  in  such  matters — that  there  was  some  pe- 
culiar value  in  his  judgment  on  a  question  of  right  and 
wrong.  He  could  not  understand  why  it  was;  but  when- 
ever there  was  a  dispute  about  cards  in  a  club,  it  was 
brought  to  him  to  settle.  It  was  most  odd.  But  it  was  true. 
In  public  affairs,  no  less  than  in  private,  Lord  Hartington's 
decisions  carried  an  extraordinary  weight.  The  feeling  of 
his  idle  friends  in  high  society  was  shared  by  the  great 
mass  of  the  English  people;  here  was  a  man  they  could 
trust.  For  indeed  he  was  built  upon  a  pattern  which  was 
very  dear  to  his  countrymen.  It  was  not  simply  that  he 
was  honest:  it  was  that  his  honesty  was  an  English  hon- 
esty— an  honesty  which  naturally  belonged  to  one  who, 
so  it  seemed  to  them,  was  the  living  image  of  what  an 
Englishman  should  be.  In  Lord  Hartington  they  saw, 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    315 

embodied  and  glorified,  the  very  qualities  which  were 
nearest  to  their  hearts — impartiality,  solidity,  common 
sense — the  qualities  by  which  they  themselves  longed  to 
be  distinguished,  and  by  which,  in  their  happier  moments, 
they  believed  they  were.  If  ever  they  began  to  have  mis- 
givings, there,  at  any  rate,  was  the  example  of  Lord 
Hartington  to  encourage  them  and  guide  them — Lord 
Hartington,  who  was  never  self-seeking,  who  was  never 
excited,  and  who  had  no  imagination  at  all.  Everything 
they  knew  about  him  fitted  into  the  picture,  adding  to 
their  admiration  and  respect.  His  fondness  for  field  sports 
gave  them  a  feeling  of  security ;  and  certainly  there  could 
be  no  nonsense  about  a  man  who  confessed  to  two  ambi- 
tions— to  become  Prime  Minister  and  to  win  the  Derby — 
and  who  put  the  second  above  the  first.  They  loved  him 
for  his  casualness — for  his  inexactness — for  refusing  to 
make  life  a  cut-and-dried  business — for  ramming  an  offi- 
cial dispatch  of  high  importance  into  his  coat-pocket,  and 
finding  it  there,  still  unopened,  at  Newmarket,  several 
days  later.  They  loved  him  for  his  hatred  of  fine  senti- 
ments; they  were  delighted  when  they  heard  that  at  some 
function,  on  a  florid  speaker's  avowing  that  "this  was  the 
proudest  moment  of  his  life,"  Lord  Hartington  had 
growled  in  an  undertone  "the  proudest  moment  of  my 
life  was  when  my  pig  won  the  prize  at  Skipton  fair." 
Above  all,  they  loved  him  for  being  dull.  It  was  the  great- 
est comfort — with  Lord  Hartington  they  could  always  be 
absolutely  certain  that  he  would  never,  in  any  circum- 
stances, be  either  brilliant  or  subtle,  or  surprising,  or  im- 
passioned, or  profound.  As  they  sat,  listening  to  his 
speeches,  in  which  considerations  of  stolid  plainness  suc- 
ceeded one  another  with  complete  flatness,  they  felt,  in- 
volved and  supported  by  the  "olossai  tedium,  that  their 


31^  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

confidence  was  finally  assured.  They  looked  up,  and  took 
their  fill  of  the  sturdy  obvious  presence.  The  inheritor  of  a 
splendid  dukedom  might  almost  have  passed  for  a  farm 
hand.  Almost,  but  not  quite.  For  an  air,  that  was  difficult 
to  explain,  of  preponderating  authority  lurked  in  the  solid 
figure;  and  the  lordly  breeding  of  the  House  of  Caven- 
dish was  visible  in  the  large,  long,  bearded,  unimpres- 
sionable face. 

One  other  characteristic — the  necessary  consequence, 
or  indeed,  it  might  almost  be  said,  the  essential  expression, 
of  all  the  rest — completes  the  portrait:  Lord  Hartington 
was  slow.  He  was  slow  in  movement,  slow  in  apprehen- 
sion, slow  in  thought  and  the  communication  of  thought, 
slow  to  decide,  and  slow  to  act.  More  than  once  this  dis- 
position exercised  a  profound  effect  upon  his  career.  A 
private  individual  may,  perhaps,  be  slow  with  impunity; 
but  a  statesman  who  is  slow — whatever  the  force  of  his 
character  and  the  strength  of  his  judgment — can  hardly 
escape  unhurt  from  the  hurrying  of  Time's  winged 
chariot,  can  hardly  hope  to  avoid  some  grave  disaster  or 
some  irretrievable  mistake.  The  fate  of  General  Gordon, 
so  intricately  interwoven  with  such  a  mass  of  complicated 
circumstance — with  the  policies  of  England  and  of  Egypt, 
with  the  fanaticism  of  the  Mahdi,  with  the  irreproacha- 
bility  of  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  with  Mr.  Gladstone's  mys- 
terious passions — was  finally  determined  by  the  fact  that 
Lord  Hartington  was  slow.  If  he  had  been  even  a  very 
little  quicker — if  he  had  been  quicker  by  two  days  .  .  . 
but  it  could  not  be.  The  ponderous  machinery  took  so 
long  to  set  itself  in  motion;  the  great  wheels  and  levers, 
once  started,  revolved  with  such  a  laborious,  such  a  pain- 
ful deliberation,  that  at  last  their  work  was  accomplished 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    317 

— surely,  firmly,  completely,  in  the  best  English  manner, 
and  too  late. 

Seven  stages  may  be  discerned  in  the  history  of  Lord 
Hartington's  influence  upon  the  fate  of  General  Gor- 
don. At  the  end  of  the  first  stage,  he  had  become  convinced 
that  he  was  responsible  for  Gordon's  appointment  to 
Khartoum.  At  the  end  of  the  second,  he  had  perceived 
that  his  conscience  would  not  allow  him  to  remain  in- 
active in  the  face  of  Gordon's  danger.  At  the  end  of  the 
third,  he  had  made  an  attempt  to  induce  the  Cabinet  to 
send  an  expedition  to  Gordon's  relief.  At  the  end  of  the 
fourth,  he  had  realised  that  the  Cabinet  had  decided  to 
postpone  the  relief  of  Gordon  indefinitely.  At  the  end 
of  the  fifth,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  must 
put  pressure  upon  Mr.  Gladstone.  At  the  end  of  the  sixth, 
he  had  attempted  to  put  pressure  upon  Mr.  Gladstone, 
and  had  not  succeeded.  At  the  end  of  the  seventh,  he  had 
succeeded  in  putting  pressure  upon  Mr.  Gladstone;  the 
relief  expedition  had  been  ordered;  he  could  do  no  more. 
The  turning-point  in  this  long  and  extraordinary  process 
occurred  towards  the  end  of  April,  when  the  Cabinet, 
after  the  receipt  of  Sir  Evelyn  Baring's  final  dispatch, 
decided  to  take  no  immediate  measures  for  Gordon's  relief. 
From  that  moment  it  was  clear  that  there  was  only  one 
course  open  to  Lord  Hartington — to  tell  Mr.  Gladstone 
that  he  would  resign  unless  a  relief  expedition  was  sent. 
But  it  took  him  more  than  three  months  to  come  to  this 
conclusion.  He  always  found  the  proceedings  at  Cabinet 
meetings  particularly  hard  to  follow.  The  interchange  of 
question  and  ansv/er,  of  proposal  and  counter-proposal, 
the  crowded  counsellors,  Mr.  Gladstone's  subleties,  the 
abrupt  and  complicated  resolutions — these  things  invari- 
ably left  him  confused  and  perplexed.  After  the  crucial 


3l8  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Cabinet  at  the  end  of  April,  he  came  away  in  a  state  of 
uncertainty  as  to  what  had  occurred;  he  had  to  write  to 
Lord  Granville  to  find  out;  and  by  that  time,  of  course, 
the  Government's  decision  had  been  telegraphed  to  Egypt. 
Three  weeks  later,  in  the  middle  of  May,  he  had  grown  so 
uneasy  that  he  felt  himself  obliged  to  address  a  circular 
letter  to  the  Cabinet,  proposing  that  preparations  for  a  re- 
lief expedition  should  be  set  on  foot  at  once.  And  then  he 
began  to  understand  that  nothing  would  ever  be  done  un- 
til Mr.  Gladstone,  by  some  means  or  other,  had  been  forced 
to  give  his  consent.  A  singular  combat  followed.  The  slip- 
pery old  man  perpetually  eluded  the  cumbrous  grasp  of 
his  antagonist.  He  delayed,  he  postponed,  he  raised  in- 
terminable difficulties,  he  prevaricated,  he  was  silent,  he 
disappeared.  Lord  Hartington  was  dauntless.  Gradually, 
inch  by  inch,  he  drove  the  Prime  Minister  into  a  corner. 
But  in  the  meantime  many  weeks  had  passed.  On  July 
I  St,  Lord  Hartington  was  still  remarking  that  he  "really 
did  not  feel  that  he  knew  the  mind  or  intention  of  the 
Government  in  respect  of  the  relief  of  General  Gordon." 
The  month  was  spent  in  a  succession  of  stubborn  efforts 
to  wring  from  Mr.  Gladstone  some  definite  statement 
upon  the  question.  It  was  useless.  On  July  31st,  Lord 
Hartington  did  the  deed.  He  stated  that,  unless  an  ex- 
pedition was  sent,  he  would  resign.  It  was,  he  said,  "a  ques- 
tion of  personal  honour  and  good  faith,  and  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  yield  upon  it."  His  conscience  had  worked 
itself  to  rest  at  last. 

When  Mr.  Gladstone  read  the  words,  he  realised  that  the 
game  was  over.  Lord  Hartington's  position  in  the  Lib- 
eral party  was  second  only  to  his  own;  he  was  the  leader 
of  the  rich  and  powerful  whig  aristocracy;  his  influence 
with  the  country  was  immense.  Nor  was  he  the  man  to 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    319 

make  idle  threats  of  resignation;  he  said  he  would  resign, 
and  resign  he  would:  the  collapse  of  the  Government 
would  be  the  inevitable  result.  On  August  5  th,  therefore. 
Parliament  was  asked  to  make  a  grant  of  £300,000  in 
order  "to  enable  Her  Majesty's  Government  to  under- 
take operations  for  the  relief  of  General  Gordon,  should 
they  become  necessary."  The  money  was  voted;  and  even 
then,  at  that  last  hour,  Mr.  Gladstone  made  another, 
final,  desperate  twist.  Trying  to  save  himself  by  the  proviso 
which  he  had  inserted  into  the  resolution,  he  declared  that 
he  was  still  unconvinced  of  the  necessity  of  any  opera- 
tions at  all.  "I  nearly,"  he  wrote  to  Lord  Hartington,  "but 
not  quite,  adopt  words  received  to-day  from  Granville. 
Tt  is  clear,  I  think,  that  Gordon  has  our  messages,  and 
does  not  choose  to  answer  them.'  "  Nearly,  but  not  quite! 
The  qualification  was  masterly;  but  it  was  of  no  avail. 
This  time,  the  sinuous  creature  was  held  by  too  firm  a 
grasp.  On  August  2^th,  Lord  Wolseley  was  appointed  to 
command  the  relief  expedition;  and  on  September  9th, 
he  arrived  in  Egypt. 

The  relief  expedition  had  begun;  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment a  new  phase  opened  at  Khartoum.  The  annual  rising 
of  the  Nile  was  now  suflSciently  advanced  to  enable  one 
of  Gordon's  small  steamers  to  pass  over  the  cataracts  down 
to  Egypt  in  safety.  He  determined  to  seize  the  opportunity 
of  laying  before  the  authorities  in  Cairo  and  London,  and 
the  English  public  at  large,  an  exact  account  of  his  posi- 
tion. A  cargo  of  documents,  including  Colonel  Stewart's 
Diary  of  the  siege  and  a  personal  appeal  for  assistance  ad- 
dressed by  Gordon  to  all  the  European  powers,  was  placed 
on  board  the  Abbas;  four  other  steamers  were  to  accom- 
pany her  until  she  was  out  of  danger  from  attacks  by  the 
Mahdi's  troops;  after  which  she  was  to  proceed  alone  into 


320  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Egypt.  On  the  evening  of  September  9th,  just  as  she  was 
about  to  start,  the  EngUsh  and  French  consuls  asked  for 
permission  to  go  with  her — a  permission  which  Gordon, 
who  had  iong  been  anxious  to  provide  for  their  safety, 
readily  granted.  Then  Colonel  Stewart  made  the  same 
request;  and  Gordon  consented  with  the  same  alacrity. 
Colonel  Stewart  was  the  second  in  command  at  Khar- 
toum; and  it  seems  strange  that  he  should  have  made  a 
proposal  which  would  leave  Gordon  in  a  position  of  the 
gravest  anxiety  without  a  single  European  subordinate. 
But  his  motives  were  to  be  veiled  for  ever  in  a  tragic 
obscurity.  The  Abbas  and  her  convoy  set  out.  Hencefor- 
ward the  Governor-General  was  alone.  He  had  now,  defi- 
nitely and  finally,  made  his  decision.  Colonel  Stewart  and 
his  companions  had  gone,  with  every  prospect  of  returning 
unharmed  to  civilisation.  Mr.  Gladstone's  belief  was  justi- 
fied ;  so  far  as  Gordon's  personal  safety  was  concerned,  he 
might  still,  at  this  late  hour,  have  secured  it.  But  he  had 
chosen;  he  stayed  at  Khartoum. 

No  sooner  were  the  steamers  out  of  sight  than  he  sat 
down  at  his  writing-table  and  began  that  daily  record  of 
his  circumstances,  his  reflections,  and  his  feelings,  which 
reveals  to  us,  with  such  an  authentic  exactitude  the  final 
period  of  his  extraordinary  destiny.  His  "Journals,"  sent 
down  the  river  in  batches  to  await  the  coming  of  the  relief 
expedition,  and  addressed,  first  to  Colonel  Stewart,  and 
later  to  the  "Chief-of-Staff ,  Sudan  Expeditionary  Force," 
were  official  documents,  intended  for  publication,  though, 
as  Gordon  himself  was  careful  to  note  on  the  outer  covers, 
they  would  "want  pruning  out"  before  they  were  printed. 
He  also  wrote,  on  the  envelope  of  the  first  section,  "No 
secrets  as  far  as  I  am  concerned."  A  more  singular  set  of 
state  papers  was  never  compiled.  Sitting  there,  in  the  soli- 


THE    END    OF    GENERAL    GORDON  32I 

tude  of  his  palace,  with  ruin  closing  round  him,  with 
anxieties  on  every  hand,  with  doom  hanging  above  his 
head,  he  let  his  pen  rush  on  for  hour  after  hour  in  an 
ecstasy  of  communication,  a  tireless  unburdening  of  the 
spirit,  where  the  most  trivial  incidents  of  the  passing  day 
were  mingled  pell-mell  with  philosophical  disquisitions, 
where  jests  and  anger,  hopes  and  terrors,  elaborate  justifi- 
cations and  cynical  confessions,  jostled  one  another  in 
reckless  confusion.  The  impulsive,  demonstrative  man  had 
nobody  to  talk  to  any  more,  and  so  he  talked  instead  to 
the  pile  of  telegraph-forms,  which,  useless  now  for  per- 
plexing Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  served  very  well — for  they 
were  large  and  blank — as  the  repositories  of  his  conversa- 
tion. His  tone  was  not  the  intimate  and  religious  tone 
which  he  would  have  used  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barnes  or 
his  sister  Augusta ;  it  was  such  as  must  have  been  habitual 
with  him  in  his  intercourse  with  old  friends  or  fellow 
officers,  whose  religious  views  were  of  a  more  ordinary 
caste  than  his  own,  but  with  whom  he  was  on  confidential 
terms.  He  was  anxious  to  put  his  case  to  a  select  and 
sympathetic  audience — to  convince  such  a  man  as  Lord 
Wolseley  that  he  was  justified  in  what  he  had  done;  and 
he  was  sparing  in  his  allusions  to  the  hand  of  Providence, 
while  those  mysterious  doubts  and  piercing  introspections, 
which  must  have  filled  him,  he  almost  entirely  concealed. 
He  expressed  himself,  of  course,  with  eccentric  abandon 
— it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  do  otherwise  ; 
but  he  was  content  to  indicate  his  deepest  feelings  with 
a  fleer.  Yet  sometimes — as  one  can  imagine  happening 
with  him  in  actual  conversation — his  utterance  took  the 
form  of  a  half-soliloquy,  a  copious  outpouring  addressed 
to  himself  more  than  to  any  one  else,  for  his  own  satisf ac- 


322  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

tion.  There  are  passages  in  the  Khartoum  Journals  which 
call  up  in  a  flash  the  light,  gliding  figure,  and  the  blue  eyes 
with  the  candour  of  childhood  still  shining  in  them;  one 
can  almost  hear  the  low  voice,  the  singularly  distinct  artic- 
ulation, the  persuasive — the  self-persuasive — sentences, 
following  each  other  so  unassumingly  between  the  puffs 
of  a  cigarette. 

As  he  wrote,  two  preoccupations  principally  filled  his 
mind.  His  reflections  revolved  round  the  immediate  past 
and  the  impending  future.  With  an  untiring  persistency 
he  examined,  he  excused,  he  explained,  his  share  in  the 
complicated  events  which  had  led  to  his  present  situation. 
He  rebutted  the  charges  of  imaginary  enemies;  he  laid 
bare  the  ineptitude  and  the  faithlessness  of  the  English 
Government.  He  poured  out  his  satire  upon  officials  and 
diplomatists.  He  drew  caricatures,  in  the  margin,  of  Sir 
Evelyn  Baring,  with  sentences  of  shocked  pomposity  com- 
ing out  of  his  mouth.  In  some  passages,  which  the  editor 
of  the  Journals  preferred  to  suppress,  he  covered  Lord 
Granville  with  his  raillery,  picturing  the  Foreign  Secre- 
tary, lounging  away  his  morning  at  Walmer  Castle,  open- 
ing the  Times  and  suddenly  discovering,  to  his  horror, 
that  Khartoum  was  still  holding  out.  "Why,  he  said  dis- 
tinctly he  could  only  hold  out  six  months,  and  that  was  in 
March  (counts  the  months).  August!  why  he  ought  to 
have  given  in!  What  is  to  be  done?  They'll  be  howling  for 
an  expedition.  ...  It  is  no  laughing  matter;  that  abomi- 
nable Mahdi!  Why  on  earth  does  he  not  guard  his  roads 
better?  What  is  to  be  done?"  Several  times  in  his  bitter- 
ness he  repeats  the  suggestion  that  the  authorities  at  home 
were  secretly  hoping  that  the  fall  of  KJiartoum  would  re- 
lieve them  of  their  difficulties. 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    323 

What  that  Mahdi  is  about  [Lord  Granville  is  made  to  exclaim 
in  another  deleted  paragraph]  I  cannot  make  out.  Why  does 
he  not  put  all  his  guns  on  the  river  and  stop  the  route?  Eh  what? 
"We  will  have  to  go  to  Khartoum!"  Why,  it  will  cost  millions, 
what  a  wretched  business!  What!  Send  Zobeir?  Our  conscience 
recoils  from  that,  it  is  elastic,  but  not  equal  to  that,  it  is  a  pact 
with  the  Devil.  . .  .  Do  you  not  think  there  is  any  way  of  getting 
hold  of  HIM  in  a  quiet  way? 

If  a  boy  at  Eton  or  Harrow,  he  declared,  had  acted  as  the. 
Government  had  acted,  "I  think  he  would  be  kiqked,  and 
7  avt  sure  he  would  deserve  it."  He  was  the  victim  of 
hypocrites  and  humbugs.  There  was  "no  sort  of  parallel 
to  all  this  in  history — except  it  be  David  with  Uriah  the 
Hittite";  but  then  "there  was  an  Eve  in  the  case,"  and  he 
was  not  aware  that  the  Government  had  even  that  excuse. 
From  the  past,  he  turned  to  the  future,  and  surveyed, 
with  a  disturbed  and  piercing  vision,  the  possibilities 
before  him.  Supposing  that  the  relief  expedition  arrived, 
what  would  be  his  position?  Upon  one  thing  he  was  de- 
termined: whatever  happened,  he  would  not  play  the  part 
of  "the  rescued  lamb."  He  vehemently  asserted  that  the 
purpose  of  the  expedition  could  only  be  the  relief  of  the 
Sudan  garrison;  it  was  monstrous  to  imagine  that  it  had 
been  undertaken  merely  to  ensure  his  personal  safety.  He 
refused  to  believe  it.  In  any  case, 

I  declare  positively  [he  wrote,  with  passionate  underlinings], 
and  once  for  all,  that  I  will  not  leave  the  Sudan  until  every  one 
who  wajtts  to  go  down  is  given  the  chance  to  do  so,  unless  a 
government  is  established,  which  relieves  me  of  the  charge; 
therefore  if  any  emissary  or  letter  comes  up  here  ordering  me 
to  come  down,  I  will  not  obey  it,  but  will  stay  here,  and 

FALL  with  town,  AND  RUN  ALL  RISKS. 


324  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

This  was  sheer  insubordination,  no  doubt;  but  he  could 
not  help  that;  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be  obedient.  "I 
know  if  I  was  chief,  I  would  never  employ  myself,  for  I 
am  incorrigible."  Decidedly,  he  was  not  afraid  to  be  what 
club  men  call  insubordinate,  though,  of  all  insubordinates, 
the  club  men  are  the  worst. 

As  for  the  government  which  was  to  replace  him,  there 
were  several  alternatives:  an  Egyptian  Pasha  might  suc- 
ceed him  as  Governor-General,  or  Zobeir  might  be  ap- 
pointed after  all,  or  the  whole  country  might  be  handed 
over  to  the  Sultan.  His  fertile  imagination  evolved  scheme 
after  scheme;  and  his  visions  of  his  own  future  were 
equally  various.  He  would  withdraw  to  the  Equator;  he 
would  be  delighted  to  spend  Christmas  in  Brussels;  he 
would  ...  at  any  rate  he  would  never  go  back  to  England. 
That  was  certain. 

I  dwell  on  the  joy  of  never  seeing  Great  Britain  again,  with  its 
horrid,  wearisome  dinner  parties  and  miseries.  How  we  can  put 
up  with  those  things,  passes  my  imagination!  It  is  a  perfect 
bondage.  ...  I  would  sooner  live  like  a  Dervish  with  the  Mahdi, 
than  go  out  to  dinner  every  night  in  London.  I  hope,  if  any 
English  General  comes  to  Khartoum,  he  will  not  ask  me  to  din- 
ner. Why  men  cannot  be  friends  without  bringing  the  wretched 
stomachs  in,  is  astounding. 

But  would  an  English  General  ever  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  asking  him  to  dinner  in  Khartoum?  There  were 
moments  when  terrible  misgivings  assailed  him.  He  pieced 
together  his  scraps  of  intelligence  with  feverish  exactitude; 
he  calculated  times,  distances,  marches;  "if,"  he  wrote  on 
October  24th,  "they  do  not  come  before  30th  November, 
the  game  is  up,  and  Rule  Britannia."  Curious  premoni- 
tions came  into  his  mind.  When  he  heard  that  the  Mahdi 
was  approaching  in  person,  it  seemed  to  be  the  fulfilment 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    325 

of  a  destiny,  for  he  had  "always  felt  we  were  doomed  to 
come  face  to  face."  What  would  be  the  end  of  it  all?  "It 
is,  of  course,  on  the  cards,"  he  noted,  "that  Khartoum  is 
taken  under  the  nose  of  the  expeditionary  force  which 
will  be  pist  too  late."  The  splendid  hawks  that  swooped 
about  the  palace  reminded  him  of  a  text  in  the  Bible: — • 
"The  eye  that  mocketh  at  his  father  and  despiseth  to 
obey  his  mother,  the  ravens  of  the  valley  shall  pick  it  out, 
and  the  young  eagles  shall  eat  it."  "I  often  wonder,"  he 
wrote,  "whether  they  are  destined  to  pick  my  eyes,  for 
I  fear  I  was  not  the  best  of  sons." 

So,  sitting  late  into  the  night,  he  filled  the  empty  tele- 
graph forms  with  the  agitations  of  his  spirit,  overflowing 
ever  more  hurriedly,  more  furiously,  with  lines  of  empha- 
sis, and  capitals  and  exclamation-marks  more  and  more 
thickly  interspersed  so  that  the  signs  of  his  living  passion 
are  still  visible  to  the  enquirer  of  to-day  on  those  thin 
sheets  of  mediocre  paper  and  in  the  torrent  of  the  ink. 
But  he  was  a  man  of  elastic  temperament;  he  could  not 
remain  for  ever  upon  the  stretch;  he  sought,  and  he  found, 
relaxation  in  extraneous  matters — in  metaphysical  digres- 
sions, or  in  satirical  outbursts,  or  in  the  small  details  of  his 
daily  life.  It  amused  him  to  have  the  Sudanese  soldiers 
brought  in  and  shown  their  "black  pug  faces"  in  the 
palace  looking-glasses.  He  watched  with  a  cynical  sym- 
pathy the  impertinence  of  a  turkey-cock  that  walked  in 
his  courtyard.  He  made  friends  with  a  mouse  who  "judg- 
ing from  her  swelled-out  appearance,"  was  a  lady,  and 
came  and  ate  out  of  his  plate.  The  cranes  that  flew  over 
Khartoum  in  their  thousands  and  with  their  curious  cry, 
put  him  in  mind  of  the  poems  of  Schiller,  which  few  ever 
read,  hut  which  he  admired  highly,  though  he  only  knew 
them  in  Bulwer's  translation.  He  wrote  little  disquisitions 


32^  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

on  Plutarch  and  purgatory,  on  the  fear  of  death  and  on 
the  sixteenth  chapter  of  the  Koran.  Then  the  turkey-cock 
strutting  with  "every  feather  on  end,  and  all  the  colours 
of  the  rainbow  on  his  neck,"  attracted  him  once  more,  and 
he  filled  several  pages  with  his  opinions  upon  the  immor- 
tality of  animals,  drifting  on  to  a  discussion  of  man's  posi- 
tion in  the  universe,  and  the  infinite  knowledge  of  God.  It 
was  all  clear  to  him.  And  yet — "what  a  contradiction  is 
life!  I  hate  Her  Majesty's  Government  for  their  leaving 
the  Sudan  after  having  caused  all  its  troubles;  yet  I  be- 
lieve our  Lord  rules  heaven  and  earth,  so  I  ought  to  hate 
Him,  which  I  (sincerely)  do  not." 

One  painful  thought  obsessed  him.  He  believed  that 
the  two  Egyptian  officers,  who  had  been  put  to  death  after 
the  defeat  in  March,  had  been  unjustly  executed.  He  had 
given  v/ay  to  "outside  influences";  the  two  Pashas  had 
been  "judicially  murdered."  Again  and  again  he  referred 
to  the  incident,  with  a  haunting  remorse.  The  Times,  per- 
haps, v/ould  consider  that  he  had  been  justified;  but  what 
did  that  matter?  "If  the  Times  saw  this  in  print,  it  would 
say  'Why,  then,  did  you  act  as  you  did?'  to  which  I  fear  I 
have  no  answer."  He  determined  to  make  what  reparation 
he  could,  and  to  send  the  families  of  the  unfortunate 
Pashas  £1000  each. 

On  a  similar,  but  a  less  serious,  occasion,  he  put  the 
same  principle  into  action.  He  boxed  the  ears  of  a  careless 
telegraph  clerk — "and  then,  as  my  conscience  pricked  me, 
I  gave  him  £5.  He  said  he  did  not  mind  if  I  killed  him — I 
was  his  father  (a  chocolate-coloured  youth  of  twenty)." 
His  temper,  indeed,  was  growing  more  and  more  uncer- 
tain, as  he  himself  was  well  aware.  He  observed  with  hor- 
ror that  men  trembled  when  they  came  into  his  presence 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    327 

— that  their  hands  shook  so  that  they  could  not  hold  a 
match  to  a  cigarette. 

He  trusted  no  one.  Looking  into  the  faces  of  those  who 
surrounded  him,  he  saw  only  the  ill-dissimulated  signs 
of  treachery  and  dislike.  Of  the  40,000  inhabitants  of 
Khartoum  he  calculated  that  two-thirds  were  willing — 
were  perhaps  anxious — to  become  the  subjects  of  the 
Mahdi.  "These  people  are  not  worth  any  great  sacrifice," 
he  bitterly  observed.  The  Egyptian  officials  were  utterly 
incompetent;  the  soldiers  were  cowards.  All  his  admira- 
tion was  reserved  for  his  enemies.  The  meanest  of  the 
Mahdi's  followers  was,  he  realised,  "a  determined  warrior, 
who  could  undergo  thirst  and  privation,  who  no  more 
cared  for  pain  or  death  than  if  ?ie  were  stone."  Those 
were  the  men  whom,  if  the  choice  had  lain  with  him,  he 
would  have  wished  to  command.  And  yet,  strangely 
enough,  he  persistently  underrated  the  strength  of  the 
forces  against  him.  A  handful  of  Englishmen — a  handful 
of  Turks — would,  he  believed,  be  enough  to  defeat  the 
Mahdi's  hosts  and  destroy  his  dominion.  He  knew  very 
little  Arabic,  and  he  depended  for  his  information  upon 
a  few  ignorant  English-speaking  subordinates.  The  Mahdi 
himself  he  viewed  with  ambiguous  feelings.  He  jibed  at 
him  as  1  vulgar  impostor,  but  it  is  easy  to  perceive,  under 
his  scornful  jocularities,  the  traces  of  an  uneasy  respect. 

He  spent  long  hours  upon  the  palace  roof  gazing  north- 
wards; but  the  veil  of  mystery  and  silence  was  unbroken. 
In  spite  of  the  efforts  of  Major  Kitchener,  the  officer  in 
command  of  the  Egyptian  Intelligence  service,  hardly  any 
messengers  ever  reached  Khartoum;  and  when  they  did, 
the  information  they  brought  was  tormentingly  scanty. 
Major  Kitchener  did  not  escape  the  attentions  of  Gordon's 
pen.  When  news  came  at  last,  it  was  terrible:  Colonel 


328  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

Stewart  and  his  companions  had  been  killed.  The  Abbas, 
after  having  passed  uninjured  through  the  part  of  the 
river  commanded  by  the  Mahdi's  troops,  had  struck  upon 
a  rock;  Colonel  Stewart  had  disembarked  in  safety;  and, 
while  he  was  waiting  for  camels  to  convey  the  detachment 
across  the  desert  into  Egypt,  had  accepted  the  hospitality 
of  a  local  sheikh.  Hardly  had  the  Europeans  entered  the 
sheikh's  hut  when  they  were  set  upon  and  murdered;  their 
native  followers  shared  their  fate.  The  treacherous  sheikh 
was  an  adherent  of  the  Mahdi,  and  to  the  Mahdi  all 
Colonel  Stewart's  papers,  filled  with  information  as  to  the 
condition  of  Khartoum,  were  immediately  sent.  When  the 
first  rumours  of  the  disaster  reached  Gordon,  he  pictured, 
in  a  flash  of  intuition,  the  actual  details  of  the  catastrophe. 
"I  feel  somehow  convinced,"  he  wrote,  "they  were  cap- 
tured by  treachery.  .  .  .  Stewart  was  not  a  bit  suspicious 
(I  am  made  up  of  it) .  I  can  see  in  imagination  the  whole 
scene,  the  sheikh  inviting  them  to  land,  .  .  .  then  a  rush  of 
wild  Arabs,  and  all  is  over!"  "It  is  very  sad,"  he  added, 
"but  being  ordained,  we  must  not  murmur."  And  yet  he 
believed  that  the  true  responsibility  lay  with  him:  it  was 
the  punishment  of  his  own  sins.  "I  look  on  it,"  was  his 
unexpected  conclusion,  "as  being  -".  Nemesis  on  the  death 
of  the  two  Pashas." 

The  workings  of  his  conscience  did  indeed  take  on  sur- 
prising shapes.  Of  the  three  ex-governors  of  Darfour, 
Bahr-el-Ghazal,  and  Equatoria,  Emin  Pasha  had  dis- 
appeared, Lupton  Bey  had  died,  and  Slatin  Pasha  was  held 
in  captivity  by  the  Mahdi.  By  birth  an  Austrian  and  a 
Catholic,  Slatin,  in  the  last  desperate  stages  of  his  resist- 
ance, had  adopted  the  expedient  of  announcing  his  con- 
version to  Mohammedanism,  in  order  to  win  the 
confidence  of  his  native  troops.  On  his  capture,  the  fact 


THE     END     OF    GENERAL    GORDON  329 

of  his  conversion  procured  him  some  degree  of  considera- 
tion; and,  though  he  occasionally  suffered  from  the  ca- 
prices of  his  masters,  he  had  so  far  escaped  the  terrible 
punishment  which  had  been  meted  out  to  some  other  of 
the  Mahdi's  European  prisoners — that  of  close  confine- 
ment in  the  common  gaol.  He  was  now  kept  prisoner  in 
one  of  the  camps  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Khartoum.  He 
managed  to  smuggle  through  a  letter  to  Gordon,  asking 
for  assistance,  in  case  he  could  make  his  escape.  To  this 
letter  Gordon  did  not  reply.  Slatin  wrote  again  and  again; 
his  piteous  appeals,  couched  in  no  less  piteous  French,  made 
no  effect  upon  the  heart  of  the  Governor-General. 

Excellence!  [he  wrote].  J'ai  envoye  deux  lettres,  sans  avoir  regu 
une  reponse  de  votre  excellence.  .  .  .  Excellence!  j'ai  me  battu 
27  fois  pour  le  gouvernement  contre  I'ennemi-  -on  m'a  feri 
deux  fois,  et  j'ai  rien  fait  contre  I'honneur — rien  de  chose  qui 
doit  empeche  votre  excellence  de  m'ecrir  une  reponse  que  je 
sais  quoi  faire.  .  .  .  Je  voiis  prie,  Excellence,  de  m'honore  avec 
une  reponse.  .  .  .  P.S.  Si  votre  Excellence  ont  peutetre  entendu 
que  j'ai  fait  quelque  chose  contre  I'honneur  d'un  officier  et  cela 
vous  empeche  de  m'ecrir,  je  vous  prie  de  me  donner  I'occasion  de 
me  defendre,  et  juges  apres  la  verite. 

The  unfortunate  Slatin  understood  well  enough  the  cause 
of  Gordon's  silence.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  explained  the 
motives  of  his  conversion,  in  vain  that  he  pointed  out 
that  it  had  been  made  easier  for  him  since  he  had  "perhaps 
unhappily,  not  received  a  strict  religious  education  at 
home."  Gordon  was  adamant.  Slatin  had  "denied  his 
Lord,"  and  that  was  enough.  His  communications  with 
Khartoum  were  discovered  and  he  was  put  in  chains. 
When  Gordon  heard  of  it,  he  noted  the  fact  grimly  in  his 
diary,  without  a  comment. 

A  more  ghastly  fate  awaited  another  European  who  had 


330  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Mahdi.  Olivier  Pain,  a  French 
adventurer,  who  had  taken  part  in  the  Commune,  and 
who  was  now  wandering,  for  reasons  which  have  never 
been  discovered,  in  the  wastes  of  the  Sudan,  was  seized 
by  the  Arabs,  made  prisoner,  and  hurried  from  camp  to 
camp.  He  was  attacked  by  fever;  but  mercy  was  not 
among  the  virtues  of  the  savage  soldiers  who  held  him  in 
their  power.  Hoisted  upon  the  back  of  a  camel,  he  was 
being  carried  across  the  desert,  when,  overcome  by  weak- 
ness, he  lost  his  hold,  and  fell  to  the  ground.  Time  or 
trouble  were  not  to  be  wasted  upon  an  infidel.  Orders 
were  given  that  he  should  be  immediately  buried;  the 
orders  were  carried  out;  and  in  a  few  moments  the  caval- 
cade had  left  the  little  hillock  far  behind.  But  some  of  those 
who  were  present  believed  that  Olivier  Pain  had  been  still 
breathing  when  his  body  was  covered  with  the  sand. 

Gordon,  on  hearing  that  a  Frenchman  had  been  cap- 
tured by  the  Mahdi,  became  extremely  interested.  The  idea 
occurred  to  him  that  this  mysterious  individual  was  none 
other  than  Ernest  Renan,  "who,"  he  wrote,  "in  his  last 
publication  takes  leave  of  the  world,  and  is  said  to  have 
gone  into  Africa,  not  to  reappear  again."  He  had  met 
Renan  at  the  rooms  of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society, 
had  noticed  that  he  looked  bored — the  result,  no  doubt, 
of  too  much  admiration — and  had  felt  an  instinct  that  he 
would  meet  him  again.  The  instinct  now  seemed  to  be 
justified.  There  could  hardly  be  any  doubt  that  it  tvas 
Renan;  who  else  could  it  be?  "If  he  comes  to  the  lines," 
he  decided,  "and  it  is  Renan,  I  shall  go  and  see  him,  for 
whatever  one  may  think  of  his  unbelief  in  our  Lord,  he 
certainly  dared  to  say  what  he  thought,  and  has  not 
changed  his  creed  to  save  his  life."  That  the  mellifluous 
author  of  the  Vie  de  Jesus  should  have  determined  to  end 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    33I 

his  days  in  the  depths  of  Africa,  and  have  come,  in  accord- 
ance with  an  intuition,  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with 
General  Gordon  in  the  hnes  of  Khartoum,  would  indeed 
have  been  a  strange  occurrence;  but  who  shall  limit  the 
strangeness  of  the  possibilities  that  lie  in  wait  for  the 
sons  of  men?  At  that  very  moment,  in  the  southeastern 
corner  of  the  Sudan,  another  Frenchman,  of  a  peculiar 
eminence,  was  fulfilling  a  destiny  more  extraordinary 
than  the  wildest  romance.  In  the  town  of  Harrar,  near 
the  Red  Sea,  Arthur  Rimbaud  surveyed  with  splenetic 
impatience  the  tragedy  of  Khartoum. 

C'est  justement  les  Anglais  [he  wrote]  avec  leur  absurde  poli- 
tique, qui  minent  desormais  le  commerce  de  toutes  ces  cotes.  lis 
ont  voulu  tout  remanier  et  ils  sont  arrives  a  faire  pire  que  les 
Egyptiens  et  les  Turcs,  ruines  par  eux.  Leur  Gordon  est  un  idiot, 
leur  Wolseley  un  ane,  et  toutes  leurs  entreprises  une  suite  in- 
sensee  d'absurdites  et  de  depredations. 

So  wrote  the  amazing  poet  of  the  Saison  D'Eiifer  amid 
those  futile  turmoUs  of  petty  commerce,  in  which,  with 
an  inexplicable  deliberation,  he  had  forgotten  the  enchant- 
ments of  an  unparalleled  adolescence,  forgotten  the  fogs 
of  London  and  the  streets  of  Brussels,  forgotten  Paris, 
forgotten  the  subtleties  and  the  frenzies  of  inspiration, 
forgotten  the  agonised  embraces  of  Verlaine. 

When  the  contents  of  Colonel  Stewart's  papers  had 
been  interpreted  to  the  Mahdi,  he  realised  the  serious  con- 
dition of  Khartoum,  and  decided  that  the  time  had  come 
to  press  the  siege  to  a  final  conclusion.  At  the  end  of 
October,  he  himself,  at  the  head  of  a  fresh  army,  appeared 
outside  the  town.  From  that  moment,  the  investment 
assumed  a  more  and  more  menacing  character.  The  lack  of 
provisions  now  for  the  first  time  began  to  make  itself  felt. 


332  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

November  30th — the  date  fixed  by  Gordon  as  the  last 
possible  moment  of  his  resistance — came  and  went!  the 
Expeditionary  Force  had  made  no  sign.  The  fortunate 
discovery  of  a  large  store  of  grain,  concealed  by  some  mer- 
chants for  purposes  of  speculation,  once  more  postponed 
the  catastrophe.  But  the  attacking  army  grew  daily  more 
active,  the  skirmishes  round  the  lines  and  on  the  river 
more  damaging  to  the  besieged,  and  the  Mahdi's  guns 
began  an  intermittent  bombardment  of  the  palace.  By 
December  loth  it  was  calculated  that  there  was  not  fif- 
teen days'  food  in  the  town;  "truly  I  am  worn  to  a  shadow 
with  the  food  question,"  Gordon  wrote;  "it  is  one  con- 
tinued demand."  At  the  same  time  he  received  the  ominous 
news  that  five  of  his  soldiers  had  deserted  to  the  Mahdi. 
His  predicament  was  terrible;  but  he  calculated,  from  a 
few  dubious  messages  that  had  reached  him,  that  the  re- 
lieving force  could  not  be  very  far  away.  Accordingly,  on 
the  14th,  he  decided  to  send  down  one  of  his  four  remain- 
ing steamers,  the  Bordecn,  to  meet  it  at  Metemmah,  in 
order  to  deliver  to  the  officer  in  command  the  latest  in- 
formation as  to  the  condition  of  the  town.  The  Bordeen 
carried  down  the  last  portion  of  the  Journals,  and  Gor- 
don's final  messages  to  his  friends.  Owing  to  a  mis- 
understanding, he  believed  that  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  was 
accompanying  the  expedition  from  Egypt,  and  some  of 
his  latest  and  most  successful  satirical  fancies  played  round 
the  vision  of  the  distressed  Consul-General  perched  for 
two  days  upon  the  painful  eminence  of  a  camel's  hump. 
"There  was  a  slight  laugh  when  Khartoum  heard  Baring 
was  bumping  his  way  up  here — a  regular  Nemesis."  But, 
when  Sir  Evelyn  Baring  actually  arrived — in  whatever 
condition — what  would  happen?  Gordon  lost  himself  in 
the  multitude  of  his  speculations.  His  own  object,  he  de- 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    333 

clared,  was  "of  course,  to  make  tracks."  Then  in  one  of  his 
strange  premonitory  rhapsodies,  he  threw  out,  half  in  jest 
and  half  in  earnest,  that  the  best  solution  of  all  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  future  would  be  the  appointment  of  Major 
Kitchener  as  Governor-General  of  the  Sudan.  The  Journal 
ended  upon  a  note  of  menace  and  disdain. 

Now  MARK  THIS,  if  the  Expeditionary  Force,  and  I  ask  for  no 
more  than  two  hundred  men,  does  not  come  in  ten  days,  the 
town  may  fall;  and  I  have  done  my  best  for  the  honour  of 
our  country.  Good-bye. — C.  G.  Gordon. 

You  sent  me  no  information,  though  you  have  lots  of  money. 
— C.  G.  G. 

To  his  sister  Augusta,  he  was  more  explicit. 

[  decline  to  agree  [he  told  her]  that  the  expedition  comes  for 
my  relief;  it  comes  for  the  relief  of  the  garrisons,  which  I  failed 
to  accomplish.  I  expect  Her  Majesty's  Government  are  in  a 
precious  rage  with  me  for  holding  out  and  forcing  their  hand. 

The  admission  is  significant.  And  then  came  the  final 
adieux. 

This  may  be  the  last  letter  you  will  receive  from  me,  for  we 
are  on  our  last  legs,  owing  to  the  delay  of  the  expedition.  How- 
ever, God  rules  all,  and,  as  He  will  rule  to  His  glory  and  our 
welfare.  His  will  be  done.  I  fear,  owing  to  circumstances,  that 
my  affairs  are  pecuniarily  not  over  bright .  .  .  your  affectionate 
brother,  C.  G.  Gordon. 

P.S. — I  am  quite  happy,  thank  God,  and,  like  Lawrence,  I 
have  tried  to  do  my  duty. 

The  delay  of  the  expedition  was  even  more  serious  than 
Gordon  had  supposed.  Lord  Wolseley  had  made  the  most 
elaborate  preparations.  He  had  collected  together  a  picked 
army  of  10,000  of  the  finest  British  troops;  he  had  ar- 


334  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

ranged  a  system  of  river  transports  with  infinite  care.  For 
it  was  his  intention  to  take  no  risks;  he  would  advance 
in  force  up  the  Nile;  he  had  determined  that  the  fate  of 
Gordon  should  not  depend  upon  the  dangerous  hazards 
of  a  small  and  hasty  exploit.  There  is  no  doubt — in  view 
of  the  opposition  which  the  relieving  force  actually  met 
with — that  his  decision  was  a  wise  one;  but  unfortunately 
he  had  miscalculated  some  of  the  essential  elements  in  the 
situation.  When  his  preparations  were  at  last  complete,  it 
was  found  that  the  Nile  had  sunk  so  low  that  the  flotillas, 
over  which  so  much  care  had  been  lavished,  and  upon 
which  depended  the  whole  success  of  the  campaign,  would 
be  unable  to  surmount  the  cataracts.  At  the  same  time — 
it  was  by  then  the  middle  of  November — a  message 
arrived  from  Gordon  indicating  that  Khartoum  was  in 
serious  straits.  It  was  clear  that  an  immediate  advance  was 
necessary;  the  river  route  was  out  of  the  question;  a  swift 
dash  across  the  desert  was  the  only  possible  expedient  after 
all.  But  no  preparations  for  land  transport  had  been  made; 
weeks  elapsed  before  a  sufficient  number  of  camels  could 
be  collected;  and  more  weeks  before  those  collected  were 
trained  for  a  military  march.  It  was  not  until  December 
30th — more  than  a  fortnight  after  the  last  entry  in  Gor- 
don's Journal — that  Sir  Herbert  Stewart,  at  the  head  of 
1 100  British  troops,  was  able  to  leave  Korti  on  his  march 
towards  Metemmah,  170  miles  across  the  desert.  His  ad- 
rance  was  slow,  and  it  was  tenaciously  disputed  by  the 
Mahdi's  forces.  There  was  a  desperate  engagement  on 
January  17th  at  the  wells  of  Abu  Klea;  the  British  square 
was  broken;  for  a  moment  victory  hung  in  the  balance; 
but  the  Arabs  were  repulsed.  On  the  19th,  there  was  an- 
other furiously  contested  fight,  in  which  Sir  Herbert 
Stewart  was  killed.  On  the  2  ist,  the  force,  now  diminished 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    335 

by  over  250  casualties,  reached  Metemmah.  Three  days 
elapsed  in  reconnoitring  the  country,  and  strengthening 
the  position  of  the  camp.  On  the  24th,  Sir  Charles  Wilson, 
who  had  succeeded  to  the  command,  embarked  on  the 
Bordeen,  and  started  up  the  river  for  Khartoum.  On  the 
following  evening,  the  vessel  struck  on  a  rock,  causing 
a  further  delay  of  twenty-four  hours.  It  was  not  until 
January  28  th  that  Sir  Charles  Wilson,  arriving  under  a 
heavy  fire  within  sight  of  Khartoum,  saw  that  the  Egyp- 
tian flag  was  not  flying  from  the  roof  of  the  palace.  The 
signs  of  ruin  and  destruction  on  every  hand  showed  clearly 
enough  that  the  town  had  fallen.  The  relief  expedition  was 
two  days  late. 

The  details  of  what  passed  within  Khartoum  during  the 
last  weeks  of  the  siege  are  unknown  to  us.  In  the  diary  of 
Bordeini  Bey,  a  Levantine  merchant,  we  catch  a  few 
glimpses  of  the  final  stages  of  the  catastrophe — of  the 
starving  populace,  the  exhausted  garrison,  the  fluctua- 
tions of  despair  and  hope,  the  dauntless  energy  of  the 
Governor-General.  Still  he  worked  on,  indefatigably,  ap- 
portioning provisions,  collecting  ammunition,  consulting 
with  the  townspeople,  encouraging  the  soldiers.  His  hair 
had  suddenly  turned  quite  white,  Late  one  evening,  Bor- 
deini Bey  went  to  visit  him  in  the  palace,  which  was  being 
bombarded  by  the  Mahdi's  cannon.  The  high  building, 
brilliantly  lighted  up,  afforded  an  excellent  mark.  As  the 
shot  came  whistling  round  the  windows,  the  merchant 
suggested  that  it  would  be  advisable  to  stop  them  up  with 
boxes  full  of  sand.  Upon  this,  Gordon  Pasha  became 
enraged. 

He  called  up  the  guard  and  gave  them  orders  to  shoot  me  if  I 
moved;  he  then  brought  a  very  large  lantern  which  would  hold 
twenty-four  candles.  He  and  I  then  put  the  candles  into  the 


33^  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

sockets,  placed  the  lantern  on  the  table  in  front  of  the  window, 
lit  the  candles,  and  then  we  sat  down  at  the  table.  The  Pasha 
then  said,  "When  God  was  portioning  out  fear  to  all  the  people 
in  the  world,  at  last  it  came  to  my  turn,  and  there  was  no  fear 
left  to  give  me.  Go,  tell  all  the  people  in  Khartoum  that  Gordon 
fears  nothing,  for  God  has  created  him  without  fear." 

On  January  5  th,  Omdurman,  a  village  on  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  Nile,  which  had  hitherto  been  occupied  by 
the  besieged,  was  taken  by  the  Arabs.  The  town  was  now 
closely  surrounded,  and  every  chance  of  obtaining  fresh 
supplies  was  cut  off.  The  famine  became  terrible;  dogs, 
donkeys,  skins,  gum,  palm  fibre,  were  devoured  by  the 
desperate  inhabitants.  The  soldiers  stood  on  the  fortifica- 
tions like  pieces  of  wood.  Hundreds  died  of  hunger  daily: 
their  corpses  filled  the  streets;  and  the  survivors  had  not 
the  strength  to  bury  the  dead.  On  the  20th  the  news  of  the 
battle  of  Abu  Klea  reached  Khartoum.  The  English  were 
coming  at  last.  Hope  rose;  every  morning  the  Governor- 
General  assured  the  townspeople  that  one  day  more  would 
see  the  end  of  their  sufferings;  and  night  after  night  his 
words  were  proved  untrue. 

On  the  23  rd  a  rumour  spread  that  a  spy  had  arrived 
with  letters,  and  that  the  English  army  was  at  hand.  A 
merchant  found  a  piece  of  newspaper  lying  in  the  road 
in  which  it  was  stated  that  the  strength  of  the  relieving 
forces  was  15,000  men.  For  a  moment,  hope  flickered  up 
again,  only  to  relapse  once  more.  The  rumour,  the  letters, 
the  printed  paper,  all  had  been  contrivances  of  Gordon 
to  inspire  the  garrison  with  the  courage  to  hold  out.  On 
the  25th,  it  was  obvious  that  the  Arabs  were  preparing 
an  attack,  and  a  deputation  of  the  principal  inhabitants 
waited  upon  the  Governor-General.  But  he  refused  to  see 
them;  Bordeini  Bey  was  alone  admitted  to  his  presence. 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    337 

He  was  sitting  on  a  divan,  and,  as  Bordeini  Bey  came  into 
the  room,  he  snatched  the  fez  from  his  head  and  flung  it 
from  him. 

What  more  can  I  say?  [he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  such  as  the 
merchant  had  never  heard  before].  The  people  will  no  longer 
believe  me.  I  have  told  them  over  and  over  again  that  help  would 
be  here,  but  it  has  never  come,  and  now  they  must  see  I  tell 
them  lies.  I  can  do  nothing  more.  Go,  and  collect  all  the  people 
you  can  on  the  lines,  and  make  a  good  stand.  Now  leave  me  to 
smoke  these  cigarettes. 

Bordeini  Bey  knew  then,  he  tells  us,  that  Gordon  Pasha 
was  in  despair.  He  left  the  room,  having  looked  upon  the 
Governor-General  for  the  last  time. 

When  the  English  force  reached  Metemmah,  the  Mahdi, 
who  had  originally  intended  to  reduce  KJiartoum  to  sur- 
render through  starvation,  decided  to  attempt  its  capture 
by  assault.  The  receding  Nile  had  left  one  portion  of  the 
town's  circumference  undefended;  as  the  river  withdrew, 
the  rampart  had  crumbled ;  a  broad  expanse  of  mud  was 
left  between  the  wall  and  the  water,  and  the  soldiers, 
overcome  by  hunger  and  the  lassitude  of  hopelessness,  had 
trusted  to  the  morass  to  protect  them,  and  neglected  to 
repair  the  breach.  Early  on  the  morning  of  the  26th,  the 
Arabs  crossed  the  river  at  this  point.  The  mud,  partially 
dried  up,  presented  no  obstacle ;  nor  did  the  ruined  fortifi- 
cation, feebly  manned  by  some  half-dying  troops.  Resist- 
ance was  futile,  and  it  was  scarcely  offered:  the  Mahdi's 
army  swarmed  into  Khartoum.  Gordon  had  long  debated 
with  himself  what  his  action  should  be  at  the  supreme 
moment.  "I  shall  never  (D.V.),"  he  had  told  Sir  Evelyn 
Baring,  "be  taken  alive."  He  had  had  gun-powder  put  into 
the  cellars  of  the  palace,  so  that  the  whole  building  might, 
at  a  moment's  notice,  be  blown  into  the  air.  But  then  mis- 


338  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

givings  had  come  upon  him;  was  It  not  his  duty  "to  main- 
tain the  faith,  and,  if  necessary,  to  suffer  for  it?" — to 
remain  a  tortured  and  humiHated  witness  of  his  Lord  in 
the  Mahdi's  chains?  The  blowing  up  of  the  palace  would 
have,  he  thought,  "more  or  less  the  taint  of  suicide,"  would 
be,  "in  a  way,  taking  things  out  of  God's  hands."  He 
remained  undecided;  and  meanwhile,  to  be  ready  for  every 
contingency,  he  kept  one  of  his  little  armoured  vessels 
close  at  hand  on  the  river,  with  steam  up,  day  and  night,  to 
transport  him,  if  so  he  should  decide,  southward,  through 
the  enemy  to  the  recesses  of  Equatoria.  The  sudden  appear- 
ance of  the  Arabs,  the  complete  collapse  of  the  defence, 
saved  him  the  necessity  of  making  up  his  mind.  He  had 
been  on  the  roof,  In  his  dressing-gown,  when  the  attack 
began;  and  he  had  only  time  to  hurry  to  his  bedroom  to 
slip  on  a  white  uniform,  and  to  seize  up  a  sword  and  a 
revolver,  before  the  foremost  of  the  assailaAts  were  In  the 
palace.  The  crowd  was  led  by  four  of  the  fiercest  of  the 
Mahdi's  followers — tall  and  swarthy  Dervishes,  splendid 
In  their  many-coloured  jibbehs,  their  great  swords  drawn 
from  their  scabbards  of  brass  and  velvet,  their  spears 
flourishing  above  their  heads.  Gordon  met  them  at  the  top 
of  the  staircase.  For  a  moment,  there  was  a  deathly  pause, 
while  he  stood  in  silence,  surveying  his  antagonists.  Then 
It  Is  said  that  Taha  Shahin,  the  Dongolawi,  cried  in  a  loud 
voice,  "Mala'  oun  el  yom  yomek!"  (O  cursed  one,  your 
time  is  come) ,  and  plunged  his  spear  into  the  Englishman's 
body.  His  only  gesture  was  a  gesture  of  contempt.  Another 
spear  transfixed  him ;  he  fell,  and  the  swords  of  the  three 
other  Dervishes  Instantly  hacked  him  to  death.  Thus,  If  we 
are  to  believe  the  official  chroniclers,  in  the  dignity  of 
unresisting  disdain.  General  Gordon  met  his  end.  But  It 
is  only  fitting  that  the  last  moments  of  one  whose  whole 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    339 

life  was  passed  in  contradiction  should  be  involved  in  mys- 
tery and  doubt.  Other  witnesses  told  a  very  different 
story.  The  man  whom  they  saw  die  was  not  a  saint  but  a 
warrior.  With  intrepidity,  with  skill,  with  desperation,  he 
flew  at  his  enemies.  When  his  pistol  was  exhausted,  he 
fought  on  with  his  sword;  he  forced  his  way  almost  to 
the  bottom  of  the  staircase;  and,  among  a  heap  of  corpses, 
only  succumbed  at  length  to  the  sheer  weight  of  the  mul- 
titudes against  him. 

That  morning,  while  Slatin  Pasha  was  sitting  in  his 
chains  in  the  camp  at  Omdurman,  he  saw  a  group  of 
Arabs  approaching,  one  of  whom  was  carrying  something 
wrapped  up  in  a  cloth.  As  the  group  passed  him,  they 
stopped  for  a  moment  and  railed  at  him  in  savage  mock- 
ery. Then  the  cloth  was  lifted,  and  he  saw  before  him 
Gordon's  head.  The  trophy  was  taken  to  the  Mahdi:  at 
last  the  two  fanatics  had  indeed  met  face  to  face.  The 
Mahdi  ordered  the  head  to  be  fixed  between  the  branches 
of  a  tree  in  the  public  highway,  and  all  who  passed  threw 
stones  at  it.  The  hawks  of  the  desert  swept  and  circled 
about  it — those  very  hawks  which  the  blue  eyes  had  so 
often  watched. 

The  news  of  the  catastrophe  reached  England,  and  a 
great  outcry  arose.  The  public  grief  vied  with  the  public 
indignation.  The  Queen,  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Gordon,  im- 
mediately gave  vent  both  to  her  own  sentiments  and  those 
of  the  nation. 

How  shall  I  write  to  you  [she  exclaimed],  or  how  shall  I  attempt 
to  express  what  I  feel!  To  think  of  your  dear,  noble,  heroic 
Brother,  who  served  his  Country  and  his  Queen  so  truly,  so 
heroically,  with  a  self-sacrifice  so  edifying  to  the  World,  ncrt 
having  been  rescued.  That  the  promises  of  support  were  not  ful- 
filled— which  I  so  frequently  and  constantly  pressed  on  those 


340  EMINENT    VICTORIANS 

who  asked  him  to  go — is  to  me  grief  inexpressible!  Indeed,  it  has 
made  me  ill.  .  .  .  Would  you  express  to  your  other  sisters  and 
your  elder  Brother  my  true  sympathy,  and  what  I  do  so  keenly 
feel,  the  stain  left  upon  England  for  your  dear  Brother's  cruel, 
though  heroic,  fate! 

In  reply,  Miss  Gordon  presented  the  Queen  with  her 
brother's  Bible,  which  was  placed  in  one  of  the  corridors 
at  Windsor,  open,  on  a  white  satin  cushion,  and  enclosed 
in  a  crystal  case.  In  the  meanwhile,  Gordon  was  acclaimed 
in  every  newspaper  as  a  national  martyr;  state  services 
were  held  in  his  honour  at  Westminster  and  St.  Paul's; 
£20,000  was  voted  to  his  family;  and  a  great  sum  of 
money  was  raised  by  subscription  to  endow  a  chanty  in 
his  memory.  Wrath  and  execration  fell,  in  particular,  upon 
the  head  of  Mr.  Gladstone.  He  was  little  better  than  a  mur- 
derer; he  was  a  traitor;  he  was  a  heartless  villain,  who  had 
been  seen  at  the  play  on  the  very  night  when  Gordon's 
death  was  announced.  The  storm  passed;  but  Mr.  Glad- 
stone had  soon  to  cope  with  a  still  more  serious  agitation. 
The  cry  was  raised  on  every  side  that  the  national  honour 
would  be  irreparably  tarnished  if  the  Mahdi  were  left  in 
the  peaceful  possession  of  Khartoum,  and  that  the  Expedi- 
tionary Force  should  be  at  once  employed  to  chastise  the 
false  prophet  and  to  conquer  the  Sudan.  But  it  was  in  vain 
that  the  imperialists  clamoured,  in  vain  that  Lord  Wolse- 
ley  wrote  several  dispatches,  proving  over  and  over  again 
that  to  leave  the  Mahdi  unconquered  must  involve  the 
ruin  of  Egypt,  in  vain  that  Lord  Hartington  at  last  dis- 
covered that  he  had  come  to  the  same  conclusion.  The  old 
man  stood  firm.  Just  then,  a  crisis  with  Russia  on  the 
Afghan  frontier  supervened ;  and  Mr.  Gladstone,  pointing 
out  that  every  available  soldier  might  be  wanted  at  any 
moment  for  a  European  war,  withdrew  Lord  Wolseley  and 


THE  END  OF  GENERAL  GORDON    341 

his  army  from  Egypt.  The  Russian,  crisis  disappeared.  The 
Mahdi  remained  supreme  lord  of  the  Sudan. 

And  yet  it  was  not  with  the  Mahdi  that  the  future  lay. 
Before  six  months  were  out,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power, 
he  died,  and  the  KJialifa  Abdullahi  reigned  in  his  stead. 
The  future  lay  with  Major  Kitchener  and  his  Maxim- 
Nordenfeldt  guns.  Thirteen  years  later  the  Mahdi'a 
empire  was  abolished  for  ever  in  the  gigantic  hecatomb 
of  Omdurman;  after  which  it  was  thought  proper  vhat 
a  religious  ceremony  in  honour  of  General  Gordon  should 
be  held  at  the  Palace  at  Khartoum.  The  service  was  con- 
ducted by  four  chaplains — of  the  Catholic,  Anglican, 
Presbyterian,  and  Methodist  persuasions — and  concluded 
with  a  performance  of  "Abide  with  me" — rhe  General's 
favourite  hymn — by  a  select  company  of  Sudanese 
buglers.  Everyone  agreed  that  General  Gordon  had  been 
avenged  at  last.  Who  could  doubt  it?  General  Gordon 
himself,  possibly,  fluttering,  in  some  remote  Nirvana,  the 
pages  of  a  phantasmal  Bible,  might  have  ventured  on  a 
satirical  remark.  But  General  Gordon  had  always  been 
a  contradictious  person — even  a  little  off  his  head,  per- 
haps, though  a  hero;  and  besides,  he  was  no  longer  there 
to  contradict.  ...  At  any  rate  it  had  all  ended  very  hap- 
pily— in  a  glorious  slaughter  of  twenty  thousand  Arabs, 
a  vast  addition  to  the  British  Empire,  and  a  step  in  the 
Peerage  for  Sir  Evelyn  Baring. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

General  Gordon.  Reflections  in  Palestine.  Letters.  Khartoum 

Journals. 
A.  E.  Hake.  The  Story  of  Chinese  Gordon. 
H.  W.  Gordon.  Events  in  the  Life  of  C.  G.  Gordon. 


342  EMINENT     VICTORIANS 

D.  C.  Boulger.  Life  of  General  Gordon. 
Sir  W.  Butler.  General  Gordon. 

Rev.  R.  H.  Barnes  and  C.  E.  Brown.  Charles  George  Gordon: 
A  Sketch. 

A.  Bioves.   Un  Grand  Aventurier. 
Li  Hung  Chang.  Memoirs.'"'' 

Colonel  Chaille-Long.  My  Life  in  Fotir  Continents. 

Lord  Cromer.  Modern  Egypt. 

Sir  R,  Wingate.  Mahdiism  and  the  Sudan. 

Sir  R.  Slatin.  Fire  and  Sword  in  the  Sudan. 

J.  Ohrwalder.  Ten  Years  of  Captivity  in  the  Mahdi's  Camp. 

C.  Neufeld.  A  Prisoner  of  the  Khalecfa. 

Wilfrid  Blunt.  A  Secret  History  of  the  English  Occupation  of 

Egypt.  Gordon  at  Khartoum. 
Winston  Churchill.   The  River  War. 

F.  Power.  Letters  from  Khartoum. 
Lord  Morley.  Life  of  Gladstone. 

George  W.  Smalley.  Mr.  Gladstone.  Harper's  Magazine,  189S. 

B.  Holland.  Life  of  the  Eighth  Duke  of  Devonshire. 
Lord  Fitzmaurice.  Life  of  the  Second  Earl  Granville. 
S.  Gwynn  and  M.  Crutwell.  Life  of  Sir  Charles  Dilke. 
Arthur  Rimbaud.  Lettres. 

G.  F.  Stevens.  With  Kitchener  to  Khartoum. 

*  The  authenticity  of  the  Diary  contained  in  this  book  has  been  disputed 
notably  by  Mr.  J.  O.  P.  Bland  in  his  Li  Hung  Chang.  (Constable.  1917.) 


Modern  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 
COMPLETE  LIST  OF  TITLES  IN 

THE  MODERN  LIBRARY 

For  convenience  in  ordering  use  number  at  right  of  title 


ADAMS,  HENRY 
AIKEN,  CONRAD 

AIKEN.  CONRAD 
ALCOTT,  LOUISA  M. 
ANDERSON,  SHERWOOD 
AQUINAS,  ST.  THOMAS 
ARISTOTLE 
ARISTOTLE 
AUGUSTINE,  ST. 
AUSTEN,  JANE 

BALZAC 

BALZAC 

BEERHOHM,  MAX 

BELLAMY,  EDWARD 

BENNETT,  ARNOLD 

BERGSON,  HENRI 

BIERCE,  AMBROSE 

BOCCACCIO 

BRONTE,  CHARLOTTE 

BRONTE,  EMILY 

BUCK,  PEARL 

BURK,  JOHN  N. 

BURTON,  RICHARD 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL 

BYRNE,  DONN 

BYRON,  LORD 

CALDWELL,  ERSKINE 

CALDWELL,  ERSKINE 

CANFIELD,  DOROTHY 

CARROLL,  LEWIS 

CASANOVA,  JACQUES 

CELLINI,  BENVENUTO 

CERVANTES 

CHAUCER 

CICERO 

COMMAGER,  HENRY  STEELE 

CONFUCIUS 

CONRAD,   JOSEPH 

CONRAD,  JOSEPH 

CONRAD,  JOSEPH 
CONRAD,  JOSEPH 


The  Education  of  Henry  Adams  76 
A  Comprehensive  Anthology  of 

American  Poetry  loi 
20th-century  American  Poetry  127 
Little  Women  258 
Winesburg,  Ohio  104 
Introduction  to  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  259 
Introduction  to  Aristotle  248 
Politics  228 

The  Confessions  of  263 
Pride   and   Prejudice   and   Sense   and 

Sensibility  264 
Droll  Stories  193 

Pere  Goriot  and  Eugenie  Grandet  245 
Zuleika  Dobson  116 
Looking  Backward  22 
The  Old  Wives'  Tale  184 
Creative  Evolution  231 
In  the  Midst  of  Life  133 
The  Decameron  71 
Jane  Eyre  64 
Wuthering  Heights  106 
The  Good  Earth  15 
The  Life  and  Works  of  Beethoven  24I 
The  Arabian  Nights  201 
Erewhon  and  Erewhon  Revisiljcd  136 
The  Way  of  All  Flesh  13 
Messer  Marco  Polo  43 
Don  Juan  24 
God's  Little  Acre  51 
Tobacco  Road  249 
The  Deepening  Stream  200 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  etc.  79 
Memoirs  of  Casanova  165 
Autobiography  of  Cellini  150 
Don  Quixote  174 
The  Canterbury  Tales  161 
The  Basic  Works  of  272 
A  Short  History  of  the  United  States  235 
The  Wisdom  of  Confucius  7 
Nostromo  275 
Heart  of  Darkness 
(In  Great  Modern  Short  Stories  168) 
Lord  Jim  186 
Victory  34 


CORNEILLE  and  RACINE 

CORVO,  FREDERICK  BARON 

CRANE,  STEPHEN 

CUMMINGS,  E.  E. 

DANA,  RICHARD  HENRY 

DANTE 

DAY,  CLARENCE 

DEFOE,  DANIEL 

DEFOE,  DANIEL 

DEWEY,  JOHN 
DICKENS,  CHARLES 
DICKENS,  CHARLES 
DICKENS,  CHARLES 
DICKINSON,  EMILY 
DINESEN,  ISAK 
DOS  PASSOS,  JOHN 
DOSTOYEVSKY,  FYODOR 
DOSTOYEVSKY,  FYODOR 
DOSTOYEVSKY,  FYODOR 
DOUGLAS,  NORMAN 
DOYLE,  SIR  ARTHUR  CONAN 

DREISER,  THEODORE 
DUMAS,  ALEXANDRE 
DUMAS,  ALEXANDRE 
DU  MAURIER,  DAPHNE 
DU  MAURIER,  GEORGE 
EDMAN,  IRWIN 
EDMAN,  IRWIN 
ELLIS,  HAVELOCK 
EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO 
FAST,  HOWARD 
FAULKNER,  WILLIAM, 
FAULKNER,  WILLIAM 
FAULKNER,  WILLIAM 
FAULKNER.  WILLIAM 

FIELDING,  HENRY 
FIELDING,  HENRY 
FLAUBERT,  GUSTAVE 
FORESTER,  C.  S. 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRANKLIN,  BENJAMIN 
FREUD,  SIGMUND 
FROST,  ROBERT 
GALSWORTHY,  JOHN 

GAUTIER,  THEOPHILE 

GEORGE,  HENRY 

GODDEN,  RUMER 

GOETHE 

GOETHE 


Six  Plays  of  Corneille  and  Racine  194 

A  History  of  the  Borgias  192 

The  Red  Badge  of  Courage  130 

The  Enormous  Room  214 

Two  Years  Before  the  Mast  236 

The  Divine  Comedy  208 

Life  with  Father  230 

Moll  Flanders  122 

Robinson  Crusoe  and  A  Journal  of  the 
Plague  Year  92 

Human  Nature  and  Conduct  173 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  189 

David  Copperfield  no 

Pickwick  Papers  204 

Selected  Poems  of  25 

Seven  Gothic  Tales  54 

Three  Soldiers  205 

Crime  and  Punishment  199 

The  Brothers  Karamazov  151 

The  Possessed  55 

South  Wind  5 

The  Adventures  and  Memoirs  of  Sher- 
lock Holmes  206 

Sister  Carrie  8 

Camille  69 

The  Three  Musketeers  I43 

Rebecca  227 

Peter  Ibbetson  207 

The  Philosophy  of  Plato  181 

The  Philosophy  of  Santayana  224 

The  Dance  of  Life  160 

Essays  and  Other  Writings  91 

The  Unvanquished  239 

Absalom,  Absalom!  271 

Light  in  August  88 

Sanctuary  61 

The  Sound  and  the  Fury  and  As  I  Lay 
Dying  187 

Joseph  Andrews  117 

Tom  Jones  185 

Madame  Bovary  28 

The  African  Queen  102 

Penguin  Island  210 

Autobiography,  etc.  39 

The  Interpretation  of  Dreams  96 

The  Poems  of  242 

The  Apple  Tree 

(In  Great  Modern  Short  Stories  168) 

Mile.  De  Maupin  and 

One  of  Cleopatra's  Nights  53 

Progress  and  Poverty  36 

Black  Narcissus  256 

Faust  177 

The  Sorrows  of  Werther 

(In  Collected  German  Stories  108) 


GOGOL,  NIKOLAI 
GRAVES,  ROBERT 
HACKETT,  FRANCIS 

HAMSUN.  KNUT 
HARDY,  THOMAS 
HARDY,  THOMAS 
HARDY,  THOMAS 
HARDY,  THOMAS 
HART  AND  KAUFMAN 
HARTE,  BRET 
HAWTHORNE,  NATHANIEL 
HELLMAN,  LILLIAN 
HEMINGWAY,  ERNEST 
HEMINGWAY,  ERNEST 
HENRY,  O. 
HERODOTUS 
HERSEY,  JOHN 
HOMER 
HOMER 
HORACE 
HUDSON,  W.  H. 
HUGHES,  RICHARD 
HUGO,  VICTOR 
HUXLEY,  ALDOUS 
HUXLEY,  ALDOUS 
IBSEN,  HENRIK 
IRVING,  WASHINGTON 

JAMES,  HENRY 
JAMES,  HENRY 
JAMES,  HENRY 
JAMES,  HENRY 
JAMES,  WILLIAM 
JAMES,  WILLIAM 
JEFFERS,  ROBINSON 

JEFFERSON,  THOMAS 
JOYCE,  JAMES 
JOYCE,  JAMES 

KANT 

KAUFMAN  AND  HART 

KEATS 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD 
KOESTLER,  ARTHUR 
KUPRIN,  ALEXANDRE 
LAOTSE 

LARDNER,  RING 
LAWRENCE,  D.  H. 
LAWRENCE.  D.  H. 
LAWRENCE,  D.  H. 
LEWIS,  SINCLAIR 
LEWIS,  SINCLAIR 


Dead  Souls  40 
I,  Claudius  20 
The  Personal  History  of  Henry  the 

Eighth  265 
Growth  of  the  Soil  12 
Jude  the  Obscure  135 
The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge  17 
The  Return  of  the  Native  121 
Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  72 
Six  Plays  by  233 
The  Best  Stories  of  250 
The  Scarlet  Letter  93 
Four  Plays  by  223 
A  Farewell  to   Arms  19 
The  Sun  Also  Rises  170 
Best  Short  Stories  of  4 
The  Complete  Works  of  255 
A  Bell  for  Adano  16 
The  Iliad  166 
The  Odyssey  167 
The  Complete  Works  of  I4I 
Green  Mansions  89 
A  High  Wind  in  Jamaica  112 
The  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame  35 
Antic  Hay  209 
Point  Counter  Point  180 
A  Doll's  House,  Ghosts,  etc.  6 
Selected  Writings  of  Washington  Irving 

240 
Washington  Square  269 
The  Portrait  of  a  Lady  107 
The  Turn  of  the  Screw  169 
The  Wings  of  the  Dove  244 
The  Philosophy  of  William  James  ri4 
The  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience  70 
Roan  Stallion;  Tamar  and  Other 

Poems  118 
The  Life  and  Selected  Writings  of  234 
Dubliners  124 
A  Portrait  of  the  Artist  as  a  Young 

Man  I45 
The  Philosophy  of  266 
Six  Plays  by  233 
The    Complete    Poetry    and    Selected 

Prose  of  273 
Kim  99 

Darkness  at  Noon  74 
Yama  203 
The  Wisdom  of  262 
The  Collected  Short  Stories  of  211 
The  Rainbow  128 
Sons  and  Lovers  109 
Women  in  Love  68 
Arrowsmith  42 
Dodsworth  252 


LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W. 
LOUYS,  PIERRE 
LUDWIG,  EMIL 
MACHIAVELLI 

MALRAUX,  ANDRt 
MANN,  THOMAS 

MANSFIELD,  KATHERINE 
MARQUAND,  JOHN  P. 
MARX,  KARL 
MAUGHAM,  W.  SOMERSET 
MAUGHAM,  W.  SOMERSET 
MAUGHAM,  W.  SOMERSET 
xVIAUPASSANT,  GUY  DE 
MAUROIS,  ANDRE 
McFEE,  WILLIAM 
MELVILLE,  HERMAN 
MEREDITH,  GEORGE 
MEREDITH,  GEORGE 
MEREDITH,  GEORGE 
MEREIKOWSKI,  DMITRI 
MILTON,  JOHN 

MISCELLANEOUS 


Poems  56 

Aphrodite  77 

Napoleon  95 

The  Prince  and  The  Discourses  of 

Machiavelli  65 
Man's  Fate  32 
Death  in  Venice 

(In  Collected  German  Stories  108) 
The  Garden  Party  129 
The  Late  George  Apley  182 
Capital  and  Other  Writings  202 
Cakes  and  Ale  270 
Of  Human  Bondage  176 
The  Moon  and  Sixpence  27 
Best  Short  Stories  98 
Disraeli  46 

Casuals  of  the  Sea  195 
Moby  Dick  119 
Diana  of  the  Crossways  I4 
The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  134 
The  Egoist  253 

The  Romance  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  138 
The    Complete    Poetry    and    Selected 

Prose  of  John  Milton  132 
An  Anthology  of  American  Negro 

Literature  163 
An  Anthology  of  Light  Verse  48 
Best  Amer.  Humorous  Short  Stories  87 
Best  Russian  Short  Stories,  including 

Bunin's  The   Gentleman   from   San 

Francisco  18 
Eight  Famous  Elizabethan  Plays  94 
Famous  Ghost  Stories  73 
Five  Great  Modern  Irish  Plays  30 
Fourteen  Great  Detective  Stories  I44 
Great     German     Short     Novels    and 

Stories  108 
Great  Modern  Short  Stories  168 
Great  Tales  of  the  American  West  238 
Outline  of  Abnormal  Psychology  152 
Outline  of  Psychoanalysis  66 
Seven  Famous  Greek  Plays  158 
The  Consolation  of  Philosophy  226 
The  Federalist  139 
The  Latin  Poets  217 
The  Making  of  Man:  An  Outline  of 

Anthropology  1 49 
The  Making  of  Society:  An  Outline  of 

Sociology  183 
The  Poetry  of  Freedom  175 
The  Sex  Problem  in  Modern  Society  198 
The  Short  Bible  57 
Three  Famous  French  Romances  85 

Sapho,  by  Alphonse  Daudet 

Manon  Lescaut,  by  Antoine  Prevost 

Carmen,  by  Prosper  Merimee 


MOLIERE 

MONTAIGNE 

MORLEY,  CHRISTOPHER     ' 

NASH,  OGDEN 

NEVINS,  ALLAN 

NEWMAN,  CARDINAL  JOHN  H 
NIETZSCHE,  I'RIEDRICH 
NOSTRADAMUS 
ODETS,  CLIFFORD 
O'NEILL,  EUGENE 

O'NEILL,  EUGENE 

PALGRAVE,  FRANCIS 
PARKER,  DOROTHY 
PARKER,  DOROTHY 
PARKMAN,  FRANCIS 
PASCAL,  BLAISE 
PATER,  WALTER 
PATER,  WALTER 
PAUL,  ELLIOT 

PEPYS,  SAMUEL 
PERELMAN,  S.  J. 
PETRONIUS  ARBITER 
PLATO 
PLATO 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN 
POLO,  MARCO 
POPE,  ALEXANDER 
PORTER ,  KATHERINE  ANNE 
PROUST,  MARCEL 
PROUST,  MARCEL 
PROUST,  MARCEL 
PROUST,  MARCEL 
PROUST,  MARCEL 
PROUST,  MARCEL 
RAWLINGS,  MARJORIE 

KINNAN 
READE,  CHARLES 
REED,  JOHN 
RENAN,  ERNEST 
RICHARDSON,  SAMUEL 
ROSTAND,  EDMOND 
ROUSSEAU,  JEAN  JACQUES 

RUSSELL,  BERTRAND 

SCHOPENHAUER 
SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM 
SHAKESPEARE.  WILLIAM 


Plays  78 

The  Essays  of  218 

Parnassus  on  Wheels  190 

The  Selected  Verse  of  Ogden  Nash  191 

A  Short  History  of  the  United  States 

235 
Apologia  Pro  Vita  Sua  1 13 
Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  9 
Oracles  of  81 
Six  Plays  of  67 
The  Emperor  Jones,  Anna  Christie  and 

The  Hairy  Ape  I46 
The  Long   Voyage  Home  and  Seven 

Plays  of  the  Sea  ill 
The  Golden  Treasury  232 
The  Collected  Short  Stories  of  123 
The  Collected  Poetry  of  237 
The  Oregon  Trail  267 
Pensees  and  The  Provincial  Letters  164 
Marius  the  Epicurean  90 
The  Renaissance  86 
The  Life  and  Death  of  a  Spanish 

Town  225 
Samuel  Pepys'  Diary  103 
The  Best  of  247 
The  Satyricon  156 
The  Philosophy  of  Plato  181 
The  Republic  153 
Best  Tales  82 

The  Travels  of  Marco  Polo  196 
Selected  Works  of  257 
Pale  Horse,  Pale  Rider  45 
Swann's  Way  59 
Within  a  Budding  Grove  172 
The  Guermantes  Way  213 
Cities  of  the  Plain  220 
The  Captive  120 
The  Sweet  Cheat  Gone  260 

The  Yearling  246 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth  62 

Ten  Days  that  Shook  the  World  215 

The  Life  of  Jesus  140 

Clarissa  Harlowe  10 

Cyrano  de  Bergerac  154 

The  Confessions  of  Jean  Jacques 

Rousseau  243 
Selected  Papers  of  Bertrand  Russell  137 
The  Philosophy  of  Schopenhauer  52 
Tragedies,  1,  lA— complete,  2  vols. 
Comedies,  2,  2A — complete,  2  vols. 


SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM  H;stories,  3  )  complete,  2  vols 

Histories,  Poems,  3A^         ^ 


SHEEAN,  VINCENT 
SHELLEY 
SMOLLETT,  TOBIAS 


Personal  History  32 

The  Selected  Poetry  of  274 

Humphry  Clinker  159 


SNOW,  EDGAR 

SPINOZA 

STEINBECK,  JOHN 

STEINBECK,  JOHN 

STEINBECK,  JOHN 

STEINBECK,  JOHN 

STENDHAL 

STERNE,  LAURENCE 

STEWART,  GEORGE  R. 

STOKER,  BRAM 

STONE,  IRVING 

STOWE,  HARRIET  BEECHER 

STRACHEY,  LYTTON 

SUETONIUS 

SWIFT,  JONATHAN 

SWINBURNE,  CHARLES 
SYMONDS,  JOHN  A. 
TACITUS 

TCHEKOV,  ANTON 
TCHEKOV,  ANTON 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM 
THACKERAY,  WILLIAM 
THOMPSON,  FRANCIS 
THOREAU,  HENRY  DAVID 
THUCYDIDES 
TOLSTOY,  LEO 
TROLLOPE,  ANTHONY 
TROLLOPE,  ANTHONY 
TURGENEV,  IVAN 
TWAIN,  MARK 

VAN  LOON,  HENDRIK  W. 
VEBLEN,  THORSTEIN 
VIRGIL'S  WORKS 

VOLTAIRE 
WALPOLE,  HUGH 
WALTON,  IZAAK 
WEBB,  MARY 
WELLS,  H.  G. 
WHARTON,  EDITH 
WHITMAN,  WALT 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WORDSWORTH 
WRIGHT,  RICHARD 
YEATS,  W.  B. 
YOUNG,  G.  F. 
ZOLA,  EMILE 
ZWEIG,  STEFAN 


Red  Star  Over  China  126 

The  I?hilosophy  of  Spinoza  60 

In  Dubious  Battle  115 

Of  Mice  and  Men  29 

The  Grapes  of  Wrath  I48 

Tortilla  Flat  216 

The  Red  and  the  Black  157 

Tristram  Shandy  147 

Storm  254 

Dracula  31 

Lust  for  Life  11 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  261 

Eminent  Victorians  212 

Lives  of  the  Twelve  Caesars  188 

Gulliver's  Travels,  A  Tale  of  a  Tub,  The 

Battle  of  the  Books  100 
Poems  23 

The  Life  of  Michelangelo  49 
The  Complete  Works  of  222 
Short  Stories  50 

Sea  Gull,  Cherry  Orchard,  Three  Sis- 
ters, ere.  171 
Henry  Esmond  80 
Vanity  Fair  131 

Complete  Poems  38 

Walden  and  Other  Writings  155 

The  Complete  Writings  of  58 

Anna  Karenina  37 

Barchester  Towers  and  The  Warden  4I 

The  Eustace  Diamonds  251 

Fathers  and  Sons  21 

Connecticut  Yankee  in  King  Arthur's 
Court,  A  162 

Ancient  Man  105 

The  Theory  of  the  Leisure  Class  63 

Including  The  Aeneid,  Eclogues,  and 
Georgics  75 

Candide  47 

Fortitude  178 

The  Compleat  Angler  26 

Precious  Bane  219 

Tono  Bungay  197 

The  Age  of  Innocence  229 

Leaves  of  Grass  97 

Dorian  Gray,  De  Profundis  125 

Poems  and  Fairy  Tales  84 

The  Plays  of  Oscar  Wilde  83 

Selected  Poetry  of  268 

Native  Son  221 

Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Talcs  44 

The  Medici  179 

Nana  142 

Amok  (In  Collected  German  Stories  108) 


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cni.xL...r,H"'^®''®'*y  °^  California 
30S  rS  J^",!*  "^^'^^'^L  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
^^^^t^^Z^""^- Parking  Lot  17  .  Box  951388 
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